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Everyone understood how the manipulation worked. Westboro was in decline then. Its founder, Fred Phelps, had died that spring, and the shock value of its mission—waving “GOD HATES FAGS” signs or taunting mourners at military funerals—had long since worn off. We might have kept working at our desks, but some sense that reporting or life required the witnessing of things led a few colleagues and me down the stairs and out to the street. The Westboro people brandished offensive signs and yelled, and counterprotesters tried to countershock them. A man in skivvies proudly made noise.