When he was asleep on the couch, I texted Margot that Blithe was so-so and that I’d met her friend Nat. I pulled out my phone and held down on the Rhiz button.

The nightlife monk Operatrix appeared.

“I have something else you can do for me,” I said.

They nodded and the light caught their earrings.

“I need some more files. The ones about his adoption.”

“I’ll check in with our archivists. You’re doing great, Pen,” they said, and they were gone.

How secure in yourself do you have to be to tell someone else they’re doing a good job? I wondered.

Something moved in the doorway.

“You know, you could just ask me directly about Blithe’s adoption,” Blithe said. His tone was murderous. For a moment, I thought he might have a weapon.

“Okay, Blithe, let’s sit down.”

I gestured for him to come sit on my bed.

He came over and stood.

“What’s the deal with your adoption?”

“These white people took me. And they wouldn’t let go.” His voice remained like stone.

“How old were you?”

“Young.”

“Do you remember your bio parents?”

“Call the Rhiz, call the Operator, and tell them to deliver an important message for me, okay?”

He started squeezing the cold cast iron of my headboard.

“Tell them.”

He hit it with his palm.

“Tell them.”

Hit.

“To tell my parents.”

Hit.

“That they gave me up.”

Hit.

“But I am.”

Hit.

“A boy.”

He started hitting his head on the wall and I had to pull him back. I held him and he didn’t fight me.

Aiden came home after I’d convinced Blithe to take another pill. I told him what had happened.

“Oh shit. The one-child policy.”

“What?”

“I watched a documentary about it. Chinese parents had to give up their children and always kept the boys.”

“Omigod.” I hadn’t made the connection.

We sat in the kitchen, soaking in Blithe’s tale.

A messenger dropped off an envelope. Your request for adoption materials has been denied.

I was hesitant to leave Blithe and go out with Jillian, but it was time for Aiden to do some caretaking.

I always forgot that when I went to see my old high school friend, all the old Pens threatened to come tumbling back. Can you hold it together with a specter from the past or will you revert into a timid, accommodating girl who will not correct Jillian when she says “Yass, bitch” to you, or asks about dildo technicalities? I asked myself in a cornflower-blue subway car.

In my fantasies, people from all parts of my life could come together at a giant party, but there had not been a socially acceptable occasion for this since my bat mitzvah.

We were meeting at Piastres, the old blacksmith forge at Metropolitan Avenue and Port. I’d texted her about it, and first she texted back, You know, historical frisson is complicated for most Black folks.

A few minutes later: Fine. I heard they have good Manhattans.