Sunny grabs my hand and beelines through the crowd. We squeeze past clumps of kids on either side. “I’m sorry, Lillia. That was not okay. That was so not okay.” He breathes unevenly, like he used to at the beginning of panic attacks. “You totally don’t look trans. Like, at all.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s not an insult.” I’m about to say Button was right, is the thing, when Sunny stops and stares at me, cheeks glossy.

“You’re right,” he says. “I can’t believe I never thought of that. Of course it’s not.” He wipes his wrist across his forehead. “What’s wrong with me?”

We take our seats for the panel. Sunny rocks in the chair beside mine, rubbing his knees, intent on the dais, on which sit three panelists. Two are cis-passing boys in their late teens. They could be brothers, but one has an English accent, the other a tweed blazer. These are Henry and Emmerson, according to the table tents—Sunny says transguys all have names like Victorian heirs. Both have thick arms crossed, freckles that rise into zits over the top of their noses, and crew cuts.

The other panelist, Wellcamp, possibly a college student, leans toward boy, though I’m not supposed to guess like that. They have a strong jaw, deep-set eyes, a blue bob, and silver nail polish.

“The dude with the blazer is Emmerson. He’s such a dick,” Sunny says, with reverence. “Him and the other guy hate Wellcamp. They made, like, this stupid ‘exposed’ video about how Wellcamp’s a transtrender.”

Sunny hasn’t shared an opinion on transtrenders, but he has a certain smugness about having started early. He posts shirtless childhood photos, with hidden ponytails and thick bangs. Commenters cast doubt that he was assigned female at birth. Really, the signs were subtler than that. As a child, Sunny wasn’t a boy to me, per se, though not exactly a girl either. He was a wild, genderless thing: charming and silly and free, forever hyper or bereft. More weasel than kid. And I watched him closely, knowing I’d never have my own child, since pregnancy would swell my body further in the wrong direction.

A lady introduces the panelists. She’s from the national gender outreach hotline that sponsored the conference. She explains that the participants will “debate the core of trans identity, along with issues of permission and fundamental definition.” She retires to the front row, stooped and mousy, glancing around like she fears attack.

“So,” says Emmerson, thumping his arms down on the table. “I guess it’s time to sniff out the ‘core of trans identity.’”

“Nasty, mate,” says Henry, and they both giggle.

“I brought some notes,” says Wellcamp, tapping a battered composition book, as though the relevant information will agitate to the surface. “We could open with the theoretical and home in on IRL?”