Then he holds up a hand. Across the algae-choked pond, there are people, and one has a gun raised in greeting.

They’re not Angels. I take my hand off the knife.

This is the Vanguard?

This is a group of middle-aged white men (okay, four white men and one white woman, but the Angels have made it painfully clear that’s no better) made entirely of wraparound sunglasses and pilfered army fatigues. They’ve sewn monochrome American flags and skull patches onto their sleeves, and one even holds his gun with the barrel pointed down between his legs as if to make up for something. I get the feeling I should be grateful they’re wearing masks, even if two have their noses peeking out over the top.

Salvador leans over my shoulder to whisper, “Yeah, I know.” Cormac shushes us.

“Morning, kids,” one says, almost high-pitched, the way you’d talk to elementary schoolers.

“Morning, Joey,” Nick drones in return. His head is at an angle that could almost be cocky, eyes cold and tired. Even with his mask, there’s an edge to his expression I can’t look away from. I am betrothed, I remind myself, which has no impact on the fact that I am very gay. I dig my nails into my ring finger instead.

The Vanguard—five people and twelve firearms strong, which is way too many even by Angel standards—claims the opposite table, hoisting their own sled on top. It’s covered by a dusty tarp. A guy in the back eyes Cormac like a competitor, as if Cormac isn’t half his age. Another stares at Salvador as if he’s trying to figure xem out, which has so many racist and transphobic implications that the air goes thick with it.

The one woman crinkles her eyes at me and says, “You’re a new one, aren’t you, miss?”

The word miss hits hard, the way Sister Woodside did. A knife between the ribs and into the lungs that takes all the breath out of me.

For the first time in my life, I defend myself out loud.

“I’m not a girl.”

That’s it. That’s all I have to say. I’m not a girl. The world doesn’t fall apart. The woman doesn’t spit at me and call me a failure of God’s vision for my girlhood. She just mutters, “Right. Should’ve guessed.”

As if to cut the tension obviously building in the pavilion, Joey pulls the tarp off the sled. “Let’s make this quick!”

It’s something out of Isaiah 25—a feast of wines, of fat things full of marrow. Cases of water bottles, boxes brimming with canned fruits, vegetables, and tuna, and is that peanut butter? Bars of soap, packs of socks and tampons. Batteries, hand sanitizer, and salt. The plastic gleams hard and sharp in the sun, but it might as well be the shimmer of precious metal.

“This is all we could get on such short notice,” Joey says. “Water, nonperishables, hygienics. We couldn’t spare the antibiotics”—Nick huffs—”but hopefully oxycodone makes up for it. Let’s see the goods.”