Sam's evening was going about as well as you'd expect for someone who'd been unwittingly cast on "Extreme Makeover: Supernatural Curse Edition." Every mirror reflected a stranger—someone with professionally styled waves that caught light like spun gold, wearing clothes that belonged in someone else's closet. The long tresses felt impossibly heavy against his neck and shoulders, swayed distractingly whenever he moved, and kept brushing against his arms in ways that made him constantly aware of their presence.

Sam spent the evening pacing his transformed apartment, running his fingers through hair that shouldn't exist, touching furniture he'd never bought, opening drawers full of lingerie he'd certainly never ordered. The person who lived here had taste, style, and apparently a serious commitment to coordinated interior design. None of which described the Sam who'd left this morning.

By the time he collapsed into the impossibly soft bed—when had he owned satin sheets?—Sam felt a mixture of exhaustion and determination. Tomorrow he'd start fighting back. Whatever strange nonsense was rewriting his life, it was about to meet someone who refused to go down without a fight.

Trial Period: Day 17

Sam woke up Sunday morning, furious at the universe. Whatever was happening to him—curse, mental breakdown, elaborate prank—he was done being a passive victim. Time to figure out how to fix this mess, preferably with a minimum of effort.

First, he needed to buy proper clothes for Monday's return to the office. Target was close and had everything in one place. Why waste time comparison shopping when he just needed basic masculine clothes that would convince his coworkers he hadn't completely lost his mind?

Sam speed-walked through the men's section, grabbing whatever looked roughly right in approximately his size. A few pairs of khakis that seemed fine, some button-down shirts that would do the job. He wasn't going to stand there analyzing fabric quality like some kind of fashion consultant. He grabbed a six-pack of boxers and, out of spite, a necktie he didn't even know how to tie properly.

Sam pocketed the receipt and headed home, satisfied that he'd taken a concrete step toward normalcy.

Next problem: this impossible hair. Sam pulled out his beard trimmer from the bathroom cabinet and set it to the shortest setting. Why pay some chatty barber to fix what a ten-dollar appliance could handle? Whatever cosmic force was messing with him was about to succumb to simple home grooming equipment.

He worked systematically, watching honey-blonde waves fall to the white bathroom tiles in increasingly satisfying chunks. The trimmer hummed against his scalp, reducing what should have taken months to grow to stubble in methodical passes. When he finished, Sam saw exactly what he'd hoped for—a man with brutally short hair and a jaw that suggested he settled disputes through direct action rather than passive acceptance of magical makeovers.

Sam swept up the hair and flushed it down the toilet, feeling victorious for the first time in days. Two small steps toward reclaiming his life. Tomorrow he'd go to work looking like himself again, wearing normal clothes, and start the process of returning to sanity.

Trial Period: Day 18

Monday morning brought immediate confirmation that his victories had already become defeats.

Sam woke to find honey-blonde hair fanned across his pillow like spun gold, every strand that had hit the bathroom floor apparently regenerated overnight. He touched his head in disbelief—the hair was exactly as long and perfectly styled as it had been before his trimming session, as if his hair had reappeared and visited the salon while he slept.

With growing dread, Sam opened the shopping bags from Target.

The khakis had become flowing palazzo pants in a soft sage green. The button-down shirts were now delicate cardigans in pastel blues and pinks, with pearl buttons and three-quarter sleeves. Sam held up the necktie he'd bought out of spite and watched it unravel into a delicate silk scarf in pale lavender, the fabric so fine it seemed to shimmer in the morning light.

Sam pulled out the receipt, hoping for some explanation. But the paper now clearly showed "Women's Palazzo Pants - Size 8" and "Ladies' Cardigan - Medium" in Target's standard formatting. The evidence was right there in black and white: physical reality had shifted around him like he was living in some bureaucratic fever dream.

He had no choice. Sam had to venture into public wearing the women's clothes that had replaced his entire wardrobe. He stood in front of his closet, surveying options that ranged from "obviously feminine" to "aggressively feminine," searching for something that might let him blend into professional society without triggering whatever mechanism kept transforming his life.

Sam selected the most conservative options he could find: navy women's slacks that fit his slender frame precisely, and a cream-colored blouse that felt foreign against his impossibly smooth skin. The women's boyshort panties were the least feminine underwear option available, though wearing them felt like participating in his own identity theft.

Looking in the mirror, Sam barely recognized the person staring back. His honey-blonde hair fell in perfectly styled waves that seemed professionally maintained, framing masculine features that looked increasingly out of place above this carefully coordinated outfit. The women's clothes fit but hung awkwardly on his frame, creating the appearance of someone playing dress-up in their sister's office clothes.

At work, Bob from the neighboring cubicle offered his usual Monday morning greeting without acknowledging that Sam was wearing women's slacks and a blouse to their corporate office.

"Looking good today, Sam," Bob said casually, as if professionally styled blonde hair and women's clothing were perfectly normal choices for the guy who'd spent three years wearing the same rotation of discount khakis and wrinkled button-downs.

When Sam tried to gauge reactions by mentioning his "new look," people responded with vague politeness usually reserved for people who were fishing for compliments. Maria from accounting earnestly complimented his "nice outfit," showing no awareness that his wardrobe had been completely replaced with women's clothing.

Their non-reactions proved what Sam had been suspecting since his voice changed. Reality was somehow adjusting around him with each transformation, rewriting everyone's memories so that he was the only person who noticed his life being turned inside out. The world was gaslighting him on a fundamental level, almost impressive in its thoroughness.

Sam spent the morning researching his situation like someone cramming for finals. During his lunch break he scoured the internet for any mention of magical gym memberships, transformation curses, or reality-altering fitness programs. The searches yielded nothing useful—just fitness marketing websites, transformation success stories featuring normal before-and-after photos, and forum discussions about people who claimed their gym experiences had "changed their lives" in disappointingly metaphorical ways.

He tried searching for other Results Fitness locations, hoping to find reviews or testimonials that might hint at unusual side effects. The company had a professional website featuring generic fitness stock photos and testimonials that praised their "life-changing" programs without specifying exactly what kinds of changes their clients had experienced. Nothing suggested forced gender transition was part of their standard service package.

Sam even considered calling other gym members to ask about their experiences, but he had no way to contact them and wasn't sure how to phrase questions about reality-altering side effects without sounding like someone who needed a therapist.

The research left him feeling more isolated and confused than before. Either he was experiencing something completely unprecedented, or the curse was sophisticated enough to cover its tracks in ways that left no digital footprint. Apparently even curses had learned the importance of good data hygiene.

That evening brought Sam's monthly book club meeting. He loathed the idea of attending as he currently looked, but didn't want to miss that night's discussion. The Sci-Fi Society had been working through classic literature for over a year, and this month's selection was "Dune"—a doorstop of a novel that would require hours of sustained reading effort.

Sam stared at the thick paperback on his coffee table, calculating the hours of his life Frank Herbert expected him to sacrifice to desert politics and sandworm ecology. Reading 800 pages of notoriously dense prose would have taken weeks of focused attention, effort that he had kept putting off until it was too late. Why slog through endless descriptions of desert politics when the internet existed to solve exactly this problem?

Sam opened his laptop and navigated to Wikipedia, which had an excellent plot summary that covered all the major points in about ten minutes of efficient reading. Same information, fraction of the time investment, and no risk of getting bogged down in Herbert's legendary commitment to world-building over narrative pacing. Spice, sandworms, political intrigue, messianic themes—all the key elements efficiently absorbed without having to slog through hundreds of pages of exposition about desert ecology. Modern problems, modern solutions.

As he closed the laptop, another cold sensation shot down his spine.

Sam froze, suddenly focused on the weird spinal shivers he'd been ignoring for weeks. The sensation wasn't random. It had happened first when he'd chosen yoga over the intimidating weight room. Then when he'd decided on smoothies instead of learning to cook. When he'd set up the AI to handle his job. When he'd skipped shaving. When he'd hired services to handle his domestic disaster. When he'd grabbed the baseball cap instead of getting a haircut.

Every single time, he'd taken the easy way out of something. Every single time, he'd chosen convenience over effort. And every single time, he'd felt that cold sensation immediately afterward.

That couldn't be a coincidence. The chill was definitely connected to his shortcuts, though he still had no idea what that connection meant or why anyone would care about his lifestyle choices enough to point them out to him through mysterious spinal signals.

Finally figuring it out gave him hope, even if the solution was going to be a massive pain in the ass. If the transformations were triggered by lazy choices, then he'd have to start doing everything the hard way.

Thinking about it more, he realized the changes had started when he'd joined Results Fitness. He needed to quit the gym, then figure out ways to reverse the accumulated damage. Until he could get to the gym tomorrow morning and quit, he'd do everything the hard way, even if it killed him.

But first, he had to go talk about "Dune" for three hours.

Sam arrived at the community center for the book club meeting wearing his attempt at damage control—dark jeans and a simple sweater that he'd hoped would read as casually masculine. His honey-blonde hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, though tendrils still framed his masculine face in ways that softened his appearance despite his best efforts to look like someone who belonged in a sci-fi discussion.

When he reached the familiar meeting room, Sam found himself facing a completely different group of people.

Instead of the middle-aged men who loved debating Frank Herbert's worldbuilding more seriously than most people took their actual jobs, he stared at a diverse group of women in their twenties and thirties, all holding copies of what appeared to be a romance novel. The cover featured individuals whose anatomical proportions suggested significant creative input from the art department.

"Sam! So glad you could make it," said a woman with red hair who appeared to be the group's leader. "We're just getting started on 'The Duke's Forbidden Desire.' Did you finish it?"

Sam stared at the romance novel in her hands, featuring a shirtless muscular man embracing a woman whose dress was strategically defying both gravity and historical accuracy. This was definitely not "Dune," unless Frank Herbert had written a very different sequel than anyone remembered.

"I think there's been some mistake," Sam said slowly. "I'm looking for the Science Fiction Society meeting?"

The women exchanged glances with patient smiles usually reserved for people who were clearly having some kind of minor public episode.

"Honey, this is the Romance Book Club," another woman with kind eyes volunteered. "You've been joining us here every month since last spring. Maybe you got your book clubs mixed up? The sci-fi group meets next week, doesn't it?"

Sam looked around the meeting room where his sci-fi group had gathered religiously for over a year. Same location, same terrible coffee from the vending machine, completely different people discussing completely different books.

He looked down at his hands, where his unopened copy of "Dune" had been replaced by a well-loved paperback of "The Duke's Forbidden Desire." Reality had been quietly rewritten while he wasn't paying attention.

"I got my reading schedule mixed up," Sam admitted, still processing the impossibility of the situation.

"Oh, that's totally fine!" said the redhead. "Most of us are here to drink wine anyway. Have a seat."

Before Sam could figure out how to excuse himself from this parallel universe, he found himself joining their circle.

"So what did everyone think of Chapter Twelve?" asked the group leader, looking around the room. "That scene where Maximilian finally admits his feelings to Seraphina?"

The discussion that followed was unlike anything Sam had ever experienced. The women talked about the characters—Maximilian Steele, Seraphina Ravencrest, Damien Blackthorne—with genuine enthusiasm, analyzing their relationship dynamics and character development.

But when they moved into discussing the book's steamier scenes, something began happening inside Sam's head that he was completely unprepared to process. When the women described Maximilian's passionate declarations of love, Sam pictured the character clearly—the strong jaw, the intense eyes, the way his impossibly perfect chest glistened in the moonlight. When they talked about Seraphina's reaction to his touch, Sam felt a flutter of anticipation, imagining what it would feel like to be desired that intensely by someone so commanding and masculine.

The arousal caught him completely off guard. Physical attraction coursed through his body as he listened to descriptions of Maximilian's gentle but firm touch. Separately, romantic longing bloomed in his chest—he wanted to be swept off his feet by someone strong and confident. He wanted to feel delicate and cherished in the arms of a man who would protect him and make him feel beautiful.

These weren't his thoughts. These weren't his desires. Sam had never been attracted to men, had never fantasized about being the pursued rather than the pursuer, had certainly never imagined himself as the delicate partner in a romance novel scenario.

But sitting in that circle, listening to detailed discussions of masculine desire and feminine surrender, he couldn't deny the heat spreading through his body or the way his breath quickened when they described Maximilian's touch.

Everything clicked into place. The chill he felt after reading the Wikipedia entry. The shortcut he had taken instead of reading "Dune" for his book club. It had changed the book club itself. But worse, it had changed his sexual orientation to make him receptive to the romance novel the book club was studying, rewiring his brain to desire things he'd never wanted before. The transformations were moving beyond the physical—now rewriting who he was at the most basic level.

Sam excused himself from the book club with a vague excuse about feeling unwell, which wasn't entirely untrue considering he'd just discovered that his brain was being renovated without his permission. He needed to get home and figure out how to stop whatever was happening to him before he lost any more of himself to this unreal process.

Sam barely slept that night, lying in his impossibly soft bed replaying every cold sensation he could remember. Choosing yoga over weights. Skipping his shave. Hiring the cleaning service. Each shortcut had triggered that same electric chill, and each one had cost him something he hadn't even realized he was losing until it was gone. How could he fight something so insidious?

Sleep reached him before answers did.

Trial Period: Day 19

Sam awoke early, determined to head to the gym and end his trial membership. He'd laid out his athletic wear the night before: periwinkle leggings and a fitted tank top, another coordinated set from his transformed workout wardrobe.

Sam gathered his honey-blonde hair into a high ponytail that fell in waves down his back, the length still shocking him every time he caught sight of it in mirrors. The color caught the morning light beautifully, and the style made his masculine face look more delicate than he was comfortable acknowledging.

Entering Results Fitness, Sam signed in with Jessica and tried to figure out how to broach the subject of quitting.

"You're really embracing the yoga lifestyle," Jessica commented, taking in his coordinated outfit with professional approval. "And I love your outfit today, the color is perfect!"

"Jessica, can I ask you something about the membership program?" Sam said, trying to keep his voice casual. "I've been thinking about my trial period."

"Oh, wonderful!" Jessica's face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "How has your experience been?"

Sam chose his words carefully. "I've been noticing some changes since I started coming here. It's like the gym is transforming me in ways that go beyond just getting in shape."

"That's exactly what we hope to hear!" Jessica beamed. "Yoga is such a transformative practice. It's not just about physical fitness—it's about discovering your authentic self, building confidence, embracing your natural grace. A lot of our members tell us they feel like completely different people after a few weeks of regular practice."

Sam felt his frustration building. Jessica was interpreting everything through the lens of normal fitness psychology, completely missing the supernatural impossibility of what was actually happening to him.

"No, you don't get it. I'm not sure this program is right for me. I was hoping to, you know, end my membership."

"Oh, I see," Jessica continued, looking crestfallen. "Well if you're having any concerns, remember that you're still in your trial period. There's nothing to actually quit—the trial just runs for thirty days, and then you can choose whether or not to sign up for a full membership."

"So I can't quit before 30 days?"

"It's not that you can't—it's just not a thing, really? Plus you may change your mind and decide you want to finish out your trial after all. I hope you will!"

"But after thirty days, I can just... stop? And things would go back to how they were before?"

"Absolutely," Jessica said with a reassuring smile. "No pressure, no commitment beyond the trial period."

Sam came away from the conversation convinced that Jessica hadn't really understood what he was asking, which was par for the course in his conversations with her. But he felt hope surge through him for the first time since he'd discovered the honey-blonde hair hiding under his Yankees cap. He just had to survive the rest of the trial period without taking any shortcuts, and then he could walk away from Results Fitness and hopefully watch all these impossible changes reverse themselves.

Eleven more days of doing everything the hard way. How difficult could that be for someone who now understood exactly what was at stake?

Sam spent the rest of the day in a grudging frenzy of industrious activity, determined to prove he could resist the lazy impulses that had gotten him into this mess. After work, he made himself return to Results Fitness for a second yoga class, then signed up for an additional cardio session, just for good measure. Great. He was becoming one of those people who exercised twice a day.

Back at his apartment, Sam meticulously cleaned every surface even though the cleaning service had left everything spotless, fuming at the redundant manual labor. He hand-washed the delicate lingerie that had replaced his boxer shorts, trying not to think too hard about the silk and lace items he was carefully hanging to dry. He organized his transformed wardrobe, folding women's blouses and arranging the unfamiliar undergarments in neat rows like he was curating a boutique.

By evening, Sam had run out of productive tasks and found himself lying on his impossibly soft bed in satin pajamas. If he was being honest with himself, he didn't actually mind them. Scrolling through his phone in search of distraction, the loneliness hit him like a physical weight. Not that he'd ever been particularly social, but now his transformation had left him completely cut off from his old life, floating in some strange in-between space where nobody remembered who he used to be.

The attraction he'd felt during the romance book club discussion had persisted, leaving him with unfamiliar urges that seemed to be getting stronger every hour. All day, he'd found himself noticing men in ways he never had before—the broad shoulders of his yoga instructor, the confident smile of his coworkers, the way certain actors moved in the movie he'd been watching while he spent 30 minutes on the treadmill.

These new desires felt genuine and increasingly urgent, but Sam resisted wanting to act on them. He wasn't going to date a man, even if his body apparently wanted him to. That was a line he wouldn't cross, regardless of whatever rewiring was happening in his brain.

Dating apps seemed like a compromise. He could find an outlet for these new feelings through online flirting without actually having to go on real dates. Sam downloaded three different apps and spent an hour setting up profiles, trying to figure out how to present this new version of himself.

The biggest challenge was photos. Sam struggled to take something that looked attractive, but did his best with the bathroom lighting and uploaded his profile before he could second-guess himself. Then he set his phone aside and tried to sleep.

Trial Period: Day 20

Sam walked to work, having been up since 6am, still angry that he'd been forced into becoming a morning person. He'd reluctantly returned to Results Fitness, where Jessica welcomed him with a broad smile and said she'd known he'd be back. Sam really didn't want to keep going to the gym, but the thought of missing yoga—and potentially triggering more cosmic consequences—scared him more than public humiliation in women's athletic wear.

After the class, he'd meticulously styled his hair using techniques he'd found on YouTube, making sure to take every possible step with no shortcuts. He'd selected his outfit carefully—the least feminine combination he could manage from his transformed wardrobe: straight-leg black pants that could almost pass for men's trousers if you squinted, and a white button-down blouse with minimal feminine details. With a simple black blazer over it, he managed to look reasonably professional and not particularly feminine.

The walk from the gym to work had been going smoothly—Sam was actually congratulating himself on his newfound commitment to doing things properly—when he reached a blocked section of sidewalk. Someone had torn up a perfectly functional section and poured new concrete, with orange cones and a sign directing pedestrians to cross to the other side of the street to avoid the wet surface.

The proper thing for Sam to do would've been to follow the sign—walk back to the corner, cross at the light, continue down the opposite sidewalk, then cross back when he reached his destination. Maybe ten minutes of additional walking to avoid two feet of concrete.

But Sam was 5'10" and the wet concrete section was maybe two feet across. His instincts kicked in automatically—he could easily step over the narrow strip without breaking stride, without having to waste time on unnecessary detours for something so trivial.

The moment his foot touched the ground on the other side of the wet concrete, a cold sensation shot down his spine.

"Oh, shit," Sam whispered. Such a small shortcut he hadn't even noticed taking it. But he was sure it was going to cost him.

Trial Period: Day 21

The next morning, Sam climbed out of bed and immediately noticed something was wrong with the world. The doorframe to his bedroom seemed taller than usual, and when he walked to the kitchen, the counters appeared to loom above him at an uncomfortable angle. The light switches were too high, the kitchen shelves required him to stand on tiptoes to reach anything. Even his shower head was aimed too high, spraying him directly in the face.

Sam dug a tape measure out of the back of his utility closet and nervously measured himself. The evidence was undeniable—he'd lost six inches overnight, dropping from 5'10" to 5'4". Apparently stepping over wet concrete had cost him more than just his dignity. Two feet of sidewalk had somehow stolen half a foot of height. He couldn't weigh more than 125 pounds at this point.

But the height change was just the beginning of his problems.

Opening his closet revealed that his wardrobe had adapted to his new proportions, but not just in size. The styles had also evolved in ways that forced him deeper into feminine presentation, as if the curse understood that a shorter woman needed to dress more boldly to command attention.

The simple flats he'd been wearing were gone, replaced by heels in various heights—two-inch pumps, three-inch ankle boots, even some stilettos that promised to restore some of his lost stature at the cost of his dignity. Sam reluctantly selected a pair of modest two-inch heels in black leather, discovering that they forced him to walk with shorter, more deliberate steps that felt distinctly feminine.

His previously loose-fitting blouses had become more fitted and tailored, with defined waistlines and darts that created a feminine silhouette he couldn't hide. The colors had grown bolder too—where he'd once had muted tones that helped him blend in, his options now included vibrant blues, rich purples, and eye-catching patterns that demanded attention.

Even his most conservative choices had shifted. The navy slacks he'd considered his safest option were now cropped at the ankle with a higher waistline that emphasized his narrow hips. The blazers had become shorter and more structured, with tailored waists that created an hourglass silhouette despite his still-masculine frame.

Sam selected what he hoped was the least conspicuous outfit possible—charcoal slacks with a slim-cut silhouette that hugged his narrow hips, paired with a soft blue blouse that featured subtle darts along the sides to create a feminine waistline he couldn't hide. The cropped blazer that completed the ensemble had structured shoulders and a nipped-in waist. Even his most masculine choices now read unmistakably feminine to anyone paying attention, which in his new reality apparently included no one except him.

At the office, nobody seemed to remember him being taller, but everyone treated him differently. Bob offered to help him reach something from a high shelf without being asked. The HR lady whose name Sam could never remember spoke to him in a slightly more protective tone, as if his smaller stature made him more fragile. Even his seating at meetings put him at a disadvantage—everyone literally looked down at him now.

His reduced height had created an immediate shift in social dynamics that felt both subtle and profound. People were more willing to interrupt him, more likely to speak over him in meetings, quicker to dismiss his technical opinions. The loss of those six inches had cost him more than physical presence—it had diminished his professional authority in ways that he was unable to quantify but could not deny.

Sam left work that evening feeling defeated by a thousand small interactions that reminded him of his diminished status. Opening the door to his apartment, which now felt cavernous around his smaller frame, the thought of spending another solitary evening was unbearable. Maybe he'd check the dating apps to soothe his ego.

The notification screen told him everything he needed to know:

NEW MATCHES 0

Sam's confidence crumbled. The problem had to be his profile photos. His face still looked fundamentally masculine despite the honey-blonde hair and smaller stature. He tried taking new selfies, but the results were disappointing. The lighting was wrong, his angles were awkward, and he had no idea how to present his masculine features in ways that looked attractive rather than confused.

Sensing its user's ineptness, the app helpfully popped up a built-in feature offering to "Enhance your photos for maximum matches!" The interface looked professional and friendly—just a simple AI tool that would optimize lighting, adjust angles, and help his photos match his best self.

Sam clicked "okay" without really thinking about it.

The moment he confirmed the enhancement, that familiar cold sensation shot down his spine with unprecedented intensity. He'd done it again. He frantically clawed at his phone screen, trying to find a way to cancel the process. But the app's AI was already grinding away at the image file, sanding the masculine edges off his appearance.

This time, he could actually feel the changes beginning immediately.

His face grew warm, then numb, as if someone had applied anesthetic across his features. Sam rushed to the bathroom mirror and watched in horror as his features began to shift and refine themselves in real-time, as if an invisible photo editor was photoshopping his actual face.

His cheekbones rose higher, creating dramatic angles that seemed sculpted by professional lighting. His eyes grew larger and more expressive, with longer lashes that framed them naturally. His lips became fuller and more defined, taking on the kind of natural pout that seemed designed for intimate whispers.

His nose refined itself, becoming smaller and more delicate with elegant proportions that balanced his other features. His jaw narrowed and softened, losing any trace of masculine angularity. His chin became more pointed, his forehead smoother. Even his eyebrows reshaped themselves into perfect, plucked arches that complemented his new bone structure.

Within minutes, his entire face had been restructured into heart-shaped perfection that was undeniably and completely feminine. The person looking back at him from the mirror was beautiful in ways that transcended normal attractiveness. He looked exactly like an idealized version of the enhanced photos the app had just created—the beauty filter had somehow become reality.

Sam touched his transformed face with trembling fingers, feeling the new contours that his unintentional shortcut to a more attractive dating profile had created. The masculine face he'd worn for twenty-eight years was gone, replaced by feminine beauty so perfect it looked almost artificial.

A notification chimed from his phone, then another, then another. Sam looked over to see his dating apps lighting up with match notifications. New matches were flooding in—dozens of them, each one validating that his transformation had achieved exactly what the enhancement algorithm had promised.

He'd finally gotten the male attention he'd been wanting. The only cost had been the wholesale replacement of his face. At this rate, he'd be unrecognizable by the time his trial period ended—assuming he lasted that long.

Nine days to outlast the Results Fitness trial period. Nine days to fight a character flaw that apparently ran on autopilot and was systematically dismantling his identity one shortcut at a time. It wasn't going to be easy. The problem was, Sam had never been any good at difficult.