At the airport, I requested a wheelchair so everyone would know something was wrong with Blithe. Aiden was dropping off Blithe’s car at his parents’ house. His celebrity status meant that he would not have to go through security. I texted him that things were going smoothly and asked if he could get us into the special airport lounge. He didn’t respond.

At airports, it was always a shock to see so many normal families at once, screaming at and ignoring each other in matching airport sweatpants.

I was almost nostalgic for the wrong future, which would have turned a Bio-meter sickly red.

Blithe and I reached the security desk, and I handed over our tickets and IDs. Mine was from two years prior, when I’d begun dog-walking in the city as a new trans. I’d grown my hair shoulder-length, put it up in a man-bun, wore ribbed Henleys with a button open to flakes of chest hair, and joined a climbing gym, trying to evoke some long-forgotten adventurer. I put my fifty apartment keys on a carabiner and went to an REI outlet to get climbing pants and a synthetic Scylla fleece that Margot would never let me buy as a kid because it was “over-athletic,” even though now, in the 20—s, she wore yoga pants over her narrow hips like you wouldn’t believe, along with those high-performance gel clogs that had holes in them.

My adventurer’s persona did not last long; it reminded me too much of my nerdy geologist parents, who wore sporty pants with elastic waists that could be unzipped into shorts, and black all-terrain sandals streaked with yellow, like ugly wasps.

“Penfield Ruth Henderson?” the airport security guard asked with skepticism.

A shame blanket draped over me as the uniformed man uttered the Ruth aloud. Why hadn’t I packed a waterproof document carrier like perfect Aiden?

“Yes?”

“The name printed on your ticket doesn’t match your ID.”

On my ticket, it said Penfield R. Henderson.

“How important is the middle name to national security?”

He ignored me and called for a manager.

A manager wearing cargo khakis came over, adding insult to injury. He asked to see all my credit cards. Blithe started getting agitated, tapping the side of the wheelchair, whispering, “Wallpaper, wallpaper, Ruth, wallpaper.”

After the manager scrawled a series of symbols on my boarding pass, we were waved through to the next embarrassment.

Inside his pain, I hoped Blithe noticed that I, too, had all sorts of problems.

2

The kitchen looked new to me after a few days away, with its dried herbs and animal bones hanging down from the ceiling and the three stools lined up below the counter.

The Witch floated in, wearing layers and layers of shawls and her Melusine skirt with a tailed-woman appliqué.