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Eight days ago, in this same part of Montréal, the air held the same heavy warmth it holds tonight, diesel exhaust sitting low over the street like something that had decided to stay. That was the night the world gave me my name. Doteirk. I did not choose it, exactly, but it closed over me the way a coat does when someone else holds it open and you step backward into it without quite meaning to. I have been wearing it since.