There are stories that arrive quietly.
A message in an inbox, a name typed into a search bar, a flight booked on a Tuesday afternoon with shaking hands and then detonate everything.
This is one of those stories.
A viewer reached out recently.
He asked that his real name not be used, but he wanted his story told, he said, and these were his exact words.
If one man reads this before he makes the same mistake, then it was worth the embarrassment of admitting it.
What he described over the course of several messages was not the story of a foolish man or a desperate one.
It was the story of a disciplined, decorated, deeply loyal human being who did exactly what his entire life had trained him to do.
He committed.
He protected.
He provided.
And someone built a world out of nothing specifically to receive all of that.
He followed his Filipino wife to Sibu.
And what he found there changed everything he thought he knew about the previous two years of his life.
His name, for the purposes of this story, is Douglas.
My name is Douglas Ray Harmon.
And for 23 years, the United States Army told me who I was.
I was a staff sergeant.
I did two tours in Afghanistan.
I ran logistics under fire, managed men who were younger than my boots, and came home twice.
Once with a commenation, and once with a titanium rod in my left shin that still aches when the weather turns.
I am not telling you this to impress anyone.
I am telling you this because it matters to understanding how I got played because the same qualities that made me a decent soldier loyalty follow through the refusal to abandon something once I had committed to it.
Those same qualities were the exact instruments used to take apart my life.
I retired in 2018 and moved back to Fagatville, North Carolina, where I had been stationed long enough that it felt like home, even though it never quite was.
I bought a small house on a quiet street.
I got a dog, a boxer named Rumsfeld, who died two years later from a tumor and whose absence left a silence in the house I never quite got used to.
My son James lived in Seattle.
We talked on birthdays, sometimes Christmas.
He had his own life, his own world, a girlfriend I had met exactly once.
I did not blame him for the distance.
I’d not been an easy man to grow up around.
I filled evenings the way a lot of retired military men do history documentaries, the occasional bourbon, the kind of silence that starts to feel less like peace and more like something you waiting for an end to.
I was not depressed.
I want to be clear about that.
I was not falling apart.
I was simply empty like a vehicle with a full tank sitting in a garage with no destination.
I joined the dating platform in January of 2021.
I will not say which one.
It does not matter.
And frankly, they all work the same way.
You upload your best photo.
You write a few sentences about yourself that make you sound more interesting than you feel.
And then you wait.
I was not looking for something casual.
I am 54 years old.
I do not have the energy or the interest for something casual.
I wanted a partner, someone to share meals with, someone who would notice when I came home.
Her name was Marabel.
Her profile was not flashy.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Most of the profiles on that site had a performance quality to them.
Women holding drinks at beach bars.
Filters that smoothed everything into unreality.
Marbel’s photos were different.
She was sitting on a concrete step outside what looked like a modest apartment building, wearing a plain white shirt, laughing at something off camera.
The laugh was the thing.
It looked involuntary.
It looked real.
Her description said she was 29, a registered nurse in Sebu City, a woman who loved her family, her faith, and the ocean.
She said she was looking for something serious.
She said she believed in loyalty.
I sent her a message.
She replied within the hour.
Within 2 weeks, we had moved to WhatsApp, which she suggested because the platform messaging felt impersonal to her.
I agreed without thinking much about it.
We began video calling every other evening, then every evening, then sometimes twice a day, once in the morning her time before her nursing shift, once in the evening when she got home.
She was always in the same apartment on those calls.
Modest, clean, a small shelf of books behind her, a religious icon on the wall that I later learned is common in Catholic Filipino households.
She looked tired after her shifts in the way that people who actually work long hours look tired.
Not dramatically, just quietly worn.
She talked about difficult patients, the way people talk about real experiences, with frustration, with compassion, with the specific details that are impossible to fabricate convincingly.
She asked about my medals.
I told her about them in more detail than I had ever told anyone, including my ex-wife.
She listened without interrupting.
At the end, she said quietly, “You gave so much of yourself.
I hope someone gives back to you.
She started calling me her soldier.
I loved it more than I want to admit.
The emotional pull happened faster than I expected and slower than I realized.
That is the nature of it.
It is not a sudden fall.
It is a gradual comfortable descent that feels at every step like simply walking forward.
By month two, I was thinking about her when I woke up.
By month three, I was rearranging my evenings around our calls.
By month four, the house in Fagville had stopped feeling quite so silent.
Her mother became sick in month three.
Marabel mentioned it the way you mentioned something.
You were trying not to burden someone with carefully briefly then moving on to something else.
Her mother had been having headaches.
The doctors in consolation were concerned about her blood pressure, possibly her kidneys.
Tests were needed.
It was expensive, but she did not want to talk about it.
“You have enough to think about,” she said.
I pushed her to tell me the details.
She did so reluctantly.
The initial consultation and laboratory tests would cost the equivalent of $600 money that for her nursing salary after household expenses, was genuinely difficult to gather quickly.
I transferred $600 the next morning through an international wire service she recommended.
She called me that evening almost in tears.
She said she had never had someone step in for her like that.
She said her mother had asked who had helped them and when she told her it was an American man she had met online, her mother had laughed and said, “Bring him home then.
” It felt good.
That is the truth of it that I have had to sit with.
It felt genuinely, profoundly good to be needed in that way, to be the solution to a real problem.
a man who spent 23 years being useful within a military structure and then retired into purposelessness.
The relief of having somewhere to direct that energy was enormous.
I did not examine it.
I simply felt it.
The requests did not come rapidly after that.
That is an important thing to understand.
Marabel did not become a monthly invoice.
The relationship continued warmly, intimately, normally calls, laughter, shared silences, small details about each other’s days.
She told me about a patient she had grown fond of, an elderly man who reminded her of her grandfather.
I told her about the road trip I was planning through the Smoky Mountains.
We existed in each other’s lives in the way that people who are genuinely building something do.
Three weeks after the first transfer, her brother’s motorcycle, his primary way of getting to his construction job, broke down.
The repair was $400.
She mentioned it the same way she had mentioned her mother’s illness.
I transferred the money before she finished explaining.
I want to stop here and be honest about something because this story will not make sense unless I am.
I knew in some distant disciplined part of my brain that these things followed a pattern.
I had read enough to know that romance scams exist.
I had even in the early weeks of talking to Marabel found myself running a quick mental checklist.
Too beautiful, moves too fast, asks for money.
But Marbel had cleared every item on that list in a way that felt genuine rather than engineered.
She was not extraordinarily beautiful in a way that strained credibility.
She did not rush emotional intimacy.
And she did not ask for money.
She absorbed it when I offered it with visible reluctance which felt completely different.
This is the sophistication of it.
The checklist you build to protect yourself becomes the very thing used against you because a skilled operator knows the checklist exists and simply builds a version of themselves that passes it.
By month five, I had stopped running the checklist altogether.
She was simply Marabel.
My Marabel, the woman who called me her soldier and asked about my shin when the weather changed and remembered that I took my coffee without sugar.
She constructed a complete life during those months.
And I watched her construct it without understanding what I was seeing.
She sent me a photo of her hospital identification badge one afternoon.
She had been promoted to senior nurse on her ward, she said, and wanted to share it with me because I was the person she wanted to share things with.
The badge looked legitimate.
Her name, her photo, the hospital logo.
I looked at it for perhaps 5 seconds and felt proud of her.
She described her colleagues by name, a doctor she found difficult, a younger nurse she was mentoring, a janitor named Denilo, who always brought her coffee when her shift ran long.
These were not characters.
These were people with continuity who appeared in her stories over weeks and months whose situations develop the way real people’s situations develop.
When the younger nurse she was mentoring passed a difficult examination, Marbel told me about it with the particular warm pride of someone who had invested in another person’s success.
I had no framework for doubting any of it.
My military training had taught me to read physical threats, body language in high pressure situations.
the behavioral indicators of deception in tactical contexts.
It had not taught me to doubt a woman who seemed to love me.
That was not a gap in my training I had ever considered filling.
The proposal happened in month six.
I had ordered a ring modest, not extravagant, a small sapphire because she had once mentioned blue was her favorite color, and I held it up to the camera during one of our video calls.
I had rehearsed what I wanted to say.
I told her that I was not a man who did things halfway, that I had spent 23 years learning how to commit to something and see it through.
That I wanted to commit to her.
She cried, not the quick photogenic tears of a performance.
She put her hand over her mouth and turned away from the camera for a moment.
And when she turned back, her eyes were red and her breathing was unsteady.
She said, “Yes, I believe now that some portion of that reaction was real.
Not in the way I wanted it to be real.
Not because she loved me, not because she wanted a life with me, but because even people who are performing sometimes get surprised by the distance between where they started and where they ended up.
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The marriage itself happened through a civil ceremony in Sabu that I attended via video call a proxy arrangement that Marbel’s cousin, a man named Raml, who handled many of the family’s administrative matters, had arranged.
I did not meet Raml on camera.
He existed in the story as a helpful background figure, a competent older cousin who knew how things worked.
The ceremony was brief.
A local official in what appeared to be a small government office.
Marbel in a white dress that she had clearly bought for the occasion.
Two witnesses I did not recognize.
She looked at the camera at me with something that I interpreted as joy and have since spent considerable time trying to reinterpret accurately.
I immediately began the K3 visa spousal sponsorship process.
This is a legal process by which an American citizen can bring a foreign spouse to the United States while longerterm immigration is processed.
It requires documentation, fees, forms, and patience.
Marbel’s cousin, Raml, was helpful in explaining what would be needed on the Philippine side.
The fees, I was told, were significant government stamps, required document certifications, a mandatory medical clearance that had to be performed by an approved facility, a processing fee at the local civil registry.
The total across several months came to approximately $3,850.
I paid it every installment.
Without documentation, I should have demanded.
Without verification, I should have conducted.
Because Raml explained things in the kind of calm, organized way that feels official.
And because I trusted Marbel and trusting Marbel meant trusting her family, the visa stalled.
It stalled in month 8 and again in month 9 and again in month 10.
Each stall had an explanation, a processing backlog at the consulate, a required secondary stamp that had not been obtained, a clerk at the civil registry who had mishandled a document and required this was the one that should have alarmed me more than it did a cash payment to correct the error.
The payments were not enormous individually.
Individually, they were the kind of bureaucratic friction that people who deal with international paperwork encounter.
together.
In retrospect, they were a map of something.
But I did not look at the map.
I looked at Marabel.
In month 11, I made the decision that Raml’s network had not anticipated.
I was sitting at my kitchen table on a Thursday evening with a printed folder of marriage documents, a legal pad covered in notes about the visa process and the particular frustration of a man who has spent his life solving logistical problems and cannot understand why this one keeps resisting solution.
Marabel and I had just finished a call.
The visa had stalled again something about the civil registry and consolion needing to reissue a document that had apparently been filed incorrectly the first time.
I stared at the folder for a long time.
Then I opened my laptop and booked a flight to Sibu.
Round trip with the return date left flexible.
I told Marbel 2 days before I was set to leave.
Her reaction I now understand contained a quality she had not previously shown me.
A very brief very controlled moment of something that was not quite happiness.
She recovered quickly.
She said she was overjoyed.
She said she could not wait for me to see her home, meet her family, finally be in the same room after all these months.
She gave me the address of her apartment building.
She told me what neighborhood it was in.
She said she would take time off work to be with me.
I landed at Mcttangent Sibu International Airport on a Tuesday morning.
The heat was immediate in total.
Not the dry heat I knew from the Middle East, but something heavier and greener, thick with salt and diesel, and the smell of street food from the vendors working the road outside arrivals.
I was carrying a rolling suitcase, a Manila folder of every marriage document I possessed, and the address of an apartment building in Cebu City that I had been told was home.
The apartment building existed.
I want to say that because it matters.
Marbel had not given me a fictional address.
She had given me a real building on a real street.
The building was four stories, concrete with laundry lines visible between floors and a narrow entrance guarded by a security desk.
I gave the address to a taxi driver at the airport and he took me there without hesitation.
The unit she had referenced in our calls, the one I had seen in the background of hundreds of video calls whose modest walls and religious icon I could have described from memory, was occupied by an elderly couple who had lived there for 9 years.
The woman who answered the door looked at me with a specific polite confusion of someone who has answered the door to a large American carrying luggage before and found it no less bewildering the second time.
I showed her Marbel’s photo on my phone.
She recognized the face, but not as a resident, as someone who had visited the building twice, she thought both times briefly.
She described the visits as quick in and out, as though checking something or staging something.
I stood in the hallway of that building for several minutes.
The air smelled of cooking oil and fabric softener.
Somewhere above me, a television was playing.
I was trying to do what my training had always demanded in moments of unexpected information.
Stay calm.
Reassess.
Act on what is known rather than what is assumed.
What was known? My wife did not live here.
What was known? She had known I was coming.
what was known.
She had given me this address anyway.
I did not call her.
I went back to the street.
I found her through the kind of ground level investigation that Fagatville had never required of me.
I showed her photograph to people in the consolation area, a barangi just north of Sebu City where her family was supposedly from.
According to details she had shared over months of conversation.
A tricycle driver recognized her face immediately.
not from the hospital, from a convenience store on a commercial strip a short distance away.
He gave me the name of the street.
He seemed unsurprised by the inquiry in a way that told me this was not the first time someone had come looking.
I went to the store at midday.
It was an ordinary convenience store.
Bright lighting, refrigerated cases along one wall, a counter with a register, and a row of cigarettes behind glass.
There were two customers ahead of me when I pushed through the door.
Marabel was behind the counter.
She was wearing a polo shirt in the store’s colors.
Her hair was pulled back.
She looked exactly as she had looked in every video.
Call the same face, the same eyes, the same quality of contained watchfulness that I had always interpreted as thoughtfulness and was now understanding differently.
She saw me the moment I walked in.
She did not run.
She did not reach for a phone.
She looked at me for what felt like a very long time.
The kind of look that is not blank but is also not readable.
The look of someone doing rapid invisible calculations.
And then she looked down at the counter.
When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
She said, “I’m sorry, Daddy.
” The nickname, the one she had given me in our second month of talking, that I had found disarming at the time and now felt like a blade between my ribs.
I stood in that convenience store for 4 minutes.
I counted because counting is what I do when I need to keep myself from doing something I cannot take back.
The customers paid for their items and left.
No one else came in.
The fluorescent lights hummed.
Marbel did not look up from the counter again.
Then I left.
The days that followed had a quality I can only describe as methodical grief.
I did not fall apart immediately.
That is not how I am built.
I am the kind of man who when something catastrophic happens goes very quiet and very organized.
I found a small guest house near the waterfront.
I hired a local fixer, a man recommended by the guest house owner for situations involving documents and local knowledge and I began systematically to learn the shape of what had been done to me.
What the fixer and a Barangi official who knew the family told me over the course of several days was not dramatically different from what I had already begun to suspect.
But hearing it confirmed and flat, factual terms, still did something to the inside of my chest that I am not entirely able to describe.
Marbel’s mother was alive and in good health.
The kidney illness, the tests, the medications, the urgent consultations that had totaled $2,400 across several months had been fabricated entirely.
The woman I had imagined suffering in a modest house in consolation was in reality perfectly healthy.
She had, according to the Barangi official, never been informed of the specific use to which her illness had been put.
Whether that was true, I cannot say.
The civil marriage ceremony had involved a corrupt local official who worked in coordination with Raml’s network.
The legal validity of the marriage was at best questionable.
At worst, it had never been legally valid at all.
This meant that the $3,850 I had paid for visa and document processing fees had been paid toward a process built on a foundation that did not legally exist.
The fixer told me with the careful neutrality of someone delivering information he has delivered before that Raml’s network had been operating across multiple platforms for approximately 4 years.
An estimated 12 to 15 foreign nationals had been targeted.
At least two other men, one Dutch, one Australian had been in simultaneous contact with Marabel at various stages during the period she and I had been in what I believed was an exclusive relationship.
She had been managing multiple operations at once.
The way a person manages multiple work streams efficiently, compartmentally, without apparent emotional cost.
I sat with that particular piece of information longer than the others.
the total amount I had transferred over the course of the relationship, medical expenses that were invented, visa fees for a process that was fraudulent, household support payments, costs associated with the proxy wedding ceremony, smaller regular transfers for what Marbel had described as daily necessities came to $14,500.
I had also spent approximately $2,000 on my flight and the first week of accommodation before I fully understood what I was dealing with.
$14,500.
I have heard of men losing 10 times that amount to operations like this.
I know intellectually that I got out relatively cheaply.
Knowing that has never once made it feel cheap.
I filed a report with the Philippine National Police Anti-Cyber Crime Group in Sibu on my fifth day in the city.
The officer who took my statement was professional and unhurried.
He explained without impatience that crossber fraud cases of this nature were extremely difficult to prosecute.
The documentation I could provide was useful.
The case would be recorded.
The likelihood of criminal charges against Marabel was low.
The likelihood of charges against Raml, who had relocated within days of my arrival.
This I learned later was even lower.
He thanked me for coming in.
He gave me a reference number for the report.
I walked out of the police station into the Cebu afternoon.
The street was loud with traffic and vendors and the particular chaotic energy of a city that does not pause for anyone’s private devastation.
I stood on the pavement for a moment and then I started walking because walking was the only thing I could think to do.
On my 11th day in Sibu, I booked the return flight to Fagatville.
I did not go back to the convenience store.
I had said everything I needed to say in those 4 minutes of silence.
There was nothing left to add.
The flight home was long and quiet, and somewhere over the Pacific, I began doing what I had been trained to do with any failed operation.
The honest, painful accounting of where the failure originated, not with Marabel.
That is the first and most important thing I had to understand.
The failure did not originate with a 29-year-old woman from Consolassion who had grown up in a household of seven with a father who disappeared and a mother who cleaned other people’s houses.
I am not excusing what she did.
What she did caused real harm and she made real choices.
But reducing my own failure to her deception would have been dishonest and more importantly it would have left me just as vulnerable the next time.
The failure originated with my loneliness.
Not in a way I am ashamed of loneliness after 23 years of military service and a dissolved marriage and a son who lives three time zones away and a dog who died is not a character flaw.
It is simply what was true.
But I had never named it, never examined it, never taken it to anyone who could help me understand what it was doing to my judgment.
I had simply carried it the way I had always carried difficult things quietly and alone.
And into that unnamed, unexamined loneliness, walked a woman who understood whether through instinct or calculation or some combination of both exactly what shape the empty space was.
She built herself to fit it.
She called me her soldier because she recognized within the first weeks of contact that my identity was constructed around service and loyalty and the feeling of being needed.
She gave me a family to support because she understood that a man who had spent decades within a protective structure would find deep purpose in extending that protection.
She was not guessing at these things.
She was reading them.
The hospital ID badge borrowed from a real nurse friend and digitally altered was in my phone’s photos for months.
I could have reverse image searched the hospital logo.
I could have called the hospital in Sabu City and asked for Marbel by name.
I could have asked to meet her colleagues, to see her workplace, to video call from inside the hospital rather than always from the apartment.
I did none of these things, not because I was incapable of them, but because doing them would have meant admitting that I had doubt.
And admitting doubt would have meant looking at the possibility that what I felt was not real.
When you are lonely enough, hope is not something you examine.
It is something you protect.
I have been back in Fagatville for over a year now.
The house on the quiet street is the same.
The silence is the same, though it has a different quality now.
Less like waiting and more like something I am learning to inhabit honestly rather than escape.
I see a therapist every 2 weeks, a man named Dr.
Okafor who served in the Navy and therefore does not require me to spend the first 10 minutes of every session convincing him that I am not fragile for having been deceived.
He has been useful in ways I did not expect.
He pointed out that the qualities I blamed myself for, the trust, the commitment, the refusal to abandon something once I had decided it was real, were not weaknesses that needed to be excised.
They were genuine virtues that had been deliberately exploited.
The distinction matters, he said, because a man who removes his capacity for trust does not become more protected.
He becomes someone else entirely.
I am working on believing that my son James called the week I got back.
It was the first time in months.
I told him I had taken a trip.
He asked if I was all right.
I said I was fine which was not entirely true but was also not entirely false.
We have spoken several times since not frequently but with a regularity that was not there before.
Something about that conversation, its brevity, and its worry, cracked something open between us that had been closed for years.
I do not know what to make of that yet, but I am not ignoring it.
The Philippine National Police Anti-Cyber Crime Group sent a follow-up email 3 months after my report.
The case had been documented and was under ongoing review.
Raml’s network had been flagged in connection with several other complaints from international victims.
No charges had yet been filed.
Marbel, as of the last information I received, had not been formally charged.
The email was professional and unhopful in equal measure.
I have made peace with the fact that there will likely be no legal consequence for what was done to me.
That is not the peace I wanted.
It is the peace that was available.
If you are watching this and you are somewhere in the middle of a relationship that began online.
If you are sending money to someone you have not met in person.
If you are making decisions about your life based on the emotional weight of video calls and WhatsApp messages.
If you are feeling perhaps for the first time in a long time genuinely seen and genuinely chosen.
I want to say something to you carefully because I know exactly where you are standing.
You are not stupid.
That is the first thing.
The people who run these operations are not amateurs.
They study their targets.
They identify the emotional frequency a person is broadcasting loneliness.
The need for purpose, the exhaustion of a marriage that has gone quiet, the particular hunger of someone who has spent decades giving to others and received little in return.
And they tune themselves to match it with a precision that takes years to develop.
They build complete textured internally consistent lives.
They remember what you told them 3 months ago and reference it naturally 6 months later.
They provide the specific emotional nutrients that have been missing from your actual life.
They are not guessing.
They are working.
The warning signs when you list them sound obvious.
They always do from the outside.
requests for money, however small and however well explained.
Relationships that progress very quickly to deep emotional intimacy, visa problems, family medical emergencies, urgent financial crisis that only you can resolve.
The inability to meet in person for reasons that always make sense individually but accumulate into a pattern.
the way the relationship seems to escalate every time you show signs of pulling back as though it has been calibrated to keep you at exactly the right distance from doubt.
But I want to tell you something about what those warning signs feel like from the inside.
Because understanding the external list did not protect me and it will not protect you from the inside.
Each of those things has an explanation that feels completely reasonable.
The money you send is not a manipulation.
It is what a person does for someone they love who needs help.
The rapid emotional intimacy is not an engineering.
It is finally finding someone who understands you.
The visa problems are not fabricated.
They are the genuinely frustrating reality of international bureaucracy.
You are not ignoring red flags.
You are choosing consciously and with full conviction to believe in what you feel rather than what you fear.
What actually protects you is not the list.
What protects you is insisting on verification before you have something to lose.
Meet in person early, not eventually early.
Before you are emotionally invested in a way that makes doubt feel like betrayal.
Video call from locations you can verify their workplace.
a public landmark near where they say they live, somewhere that requires them to be exactly where they say they are.
Never send money to someone you have not met in the physical world.
Not because their emergencies are necessarily fabricated, but because you cannot verify them and you cannot help someone, you cannot verify.
And if you are already past that point, if you have already sent money, already made decisions based on this relationship, already told your friends and family and found them worried in ways you dismissed, then I want you to hear this as clearly as I can say it.
It is not too late to stop.
It was not too late for me when I booked that flight.
Even though I had already sent $14,500 and paid for a fraudulent marriage ceremony and alienated everyone who had tried to warn me, getting on that plane was the right decision.
Going and seeing with my own eyes was the only thing that cut through the noise.
Go and see.
Three months after I started telling this story in online forums for romance scam survivors, I found them in the weeks after I returned.
In the way you find things when you are searching for evidence that your experience has a name, I received a private message from a man in the Netherlands.
He said he had been in contact with a Filipino woman for 8 months.
He had sent just over $9,000.
He was planning to send more.
He had read my account and stopped.
He asked me if the woman he had been talking to was likely the same person.
I told him it almost certainly was not not the same person, but the same operation, the same architecture, the same emotional blueprint adapted to a different man’s particular shape of longing.
He went quiet for a moment in the message thread and then he said, “I was so sure.
She loved me.
” “I know.
” I told him.
“I know exactly what that certainty feels like.
I know the weight of it and the warmth of it and the way it reorganizes everything else around itself.
So that doubt becomes the unreasonable position rather than the rational one.
” The woman who called me daddy and cried when I proposed and disappeared with my passport and my emergency cash and my backup credit cards is somewhere tonight.
I imagine in a conversation with someone new someone who is lonely in a specific way she has already identified.
Someone who has a particular need she has already located.
Someone who does not yet know that the connection they are feeling has been built deliberately and skillfully on the precise dimensions of the empty space inside them.
I cannot reach that person.
I can only reach you.
My name is Douglas Ray Harmon.
I was a staff sergeant for 23 years.
I survived two tours in Afghanistan and a divorce and the death of my dog and the slow, quiet erosion of a civilian life I did not know how to build.
I am 54 years old and I am starting over in a house on a quiet street in Fagatville and most evenings I am genuinely all right.
I am telling you this story because the cost of learning it yourself is too high.
Don’t be me.
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