He doesn’t have stubble. For some reason, that surprises me. Maybe I’d just gotten used to it. Theo was starting to get patchy, awkward facial hair when I left, and he used to rub it on me to piss me off, leaving red burns on my neck and cheeks. I dig my nail into where my engagement ring used to be and shove more venison into my mouth. The flavors aren’t as strong this time.

Nick says, “All you have to do is give the signal and make sure the abominations don’t kill us.”

“I know.” We’ve decided I’ll be on lookout since it needs to be done anyway, and it’s the way to hide what I can do. As far as the rest of the Watch knows, my job is to find a vantage point, wait until the Angels are distracted, and fire the first shot. Easy enough for the new guy, and still more than most others are willing to do.

“See Aisha for your uniform before we leave.”

“Yeah.”

We’re silent for a moment together. Just eating, catching juice that rolls over our chins. Someone barks with laughter and claps a hand over their mouth in apology. The food settles in my stomach, and I feel warm. Not burning, but warm, like I’m somehow sitting next to the fire even though I’m all the way across the courtyard. Gentle. Cozy.

There’s so much bustle over there and inside the ALC. So many bodies, so much silent noise. It’s quiet over here. Just us, the food, the grass, and the sky.

Nick says, “It’s okay to be scared.”

I look up. “What?”

“Your hair is getting in your face again.” He digs out another set of bobby pins and hands them over. “Don’t lose these. I don’t have that many.”

It’s okay to be scared.

It hadn’t hit me until now that my teeth were grinding again.

At the core of every believer is a warrior ready for battle.

Every day, you engage in spiritual warfare against evil through prayer. But the LORD tells us: Warfare in our hearts is not enough. Angels, wash the streets red with blood.

—The Truth by High Reverend Father Ian Clevenger

In a place like the ALC, after Judgment Day, it’s easy to forget you’re trans. Or maybe a better way to word it would be, it gets easier for me to forget the pain of being trans. Being transgender is who you are, and the pain is what the outside does to you. The pain is what happens when you and the world go for each other’s throats. In the ALC, I almost forget that being trans can hurt.

But in front of a full-length mirror, it’s impossible to think about anything else. I never liked looking at myself, and that was before the Flood started showing up on my body. Aisha doesn’t see it, but I do. The way the skin on my nails has shrunken back, making them just a little too long; the dull dryness to my eyes; the fact that, when I bare my teeth while she isn’t looking, my gums have pulled away, giving me a mouthful of half fangs.