I moved in with Lloyd after that. I had no idea what else to do. He posted that he was looking for a roommate, and I responded, and suddenly, I was living with him.

I called him, by the way, with the news about you. He always thought of you fondly, always, I want you to know.

One night, I went out for dinner with Lloyd and his girlfriend at Marie Callender’s. I told them I’d been talking to this Canadian guy on the internet.

Lloyd said, “Wasn’t your grandfather born in Canada or something? Can’t you apply for citizenship with that?” I said, “Yeah, New Brunswick, but I dunno.”

Lloyd lost it. “How many people like you!”—he paused—“I mean, in your situation, would give an arm to just up and go to Canada?” Provinces had just begun to fund bottom surgery again, and Lloyd knew I wanted it. (Lloyd asked me about bottom surgery a lot.)

I didn’t have a good answer. His girlfriend put a hand on his arm. “Sweetie, this is her home. Maybe it’s not that simple.”

That night, after jerking off before bed, I started crying. (Very tragic tranny.) I slumped against myself and I thought, He’s right. There’s no shame in taking an exit that’s good. When else will it happen?

I might really believe that. Every now and then you get offered an exit, something you didn’t plan for, something you don’t deserve, and something you don’t believe you can rely on. So you don’t take it. Eventually, I realized: It doesn’t matter. No one deserves anything, really. I was on a plane a year later.

I stayed in Edmonton with that boy from the internet for a long time. He worked camera at a news station, he was obsessed with urban planning; he had a thing for getting tied up and he thought that was extreme and I loved that about him. And his parents—ugh—they were beautiful souls, apostates from a little Mennonite town. They made room for me in their family without question, and they were so incredibly kind. Those were a good few years. I built a life in that city, and yes, I got my pussy. I could’ve stayed with that boy forever, but one winter evening, as wind rage-whistled outside, he looked at me in the yellow kitchen light and he said, “I’ve been seeing someone.”

I looked for a job to get me out of town, anywhere away from him. The publishing company here had a paid internship, and I jumped on it, and then they kept me. I’ve been here a while. Cleo came back into my life last fall.

Cleo was part of this network I’ve only ever glimpsed through the internet, a network of trans women travelling and loving and fucking each other. She lived in LA, working as a midwife, but still, one day I’d see pictures of her picnicking in Chicago with other girls in sundresses, and then suddenly I would see pictures of her in Tennessee, the girls wearing leather shorts and glitter and holding chainsaws.