He’s right. When will I ever be in a place like this? Many fewer times than him. Together, we cut through the mass of attendees, shoulders brushing as participants push past. Among the sea of children, older people have materialized. A guy my age takes a selfie with two women only a little younger. A man leans on a walker by a modular wall. A couple in their sixties shares chicken tenders from a napkin. I set my shoulders back and stride ahead.

The afterparty is in the parking lot, stuck in a fog of chill. Tiki torches flicker, so many tiki torches that the pavement is clinically bright. A table offers troughs of potato chips and candy. Dimpled two-liter bottles of Coke.

We find Emmerson, presiding over a knot of younger transguys. His face makes the shapes of grievance as the little boys study his every twitch.

“Come with me,” Sunny says. “Please? I need to talk to him.”

Emmerson spots us and turns quickly away. I should warn Sunny to proceed with caution, but I don’t want to get caught up in their spat. Let him figure it out. “You go.”

His face breaks, half hurt, half confused. “Ugh, fine.” He heads on without me.

Finally, blood shivers through my limbs. I can walk anywhere. I can talk to anyone. The freedom is itchy, bloating my chest, too airy to suffer. I scan the crowd. Even a hello will be some shuffle forward. I slow as I pass a woman with a satisfying rope of a braid and the same wide shoulders as Jen. Jen, tall and curvy, bigger than all her boyfriends, twice the size of Sunny’s father: I wish, for the first time all day, that she were here. But Minsie steps out in front of me. “No alcohol in child land,” they say, wagging a tiny cup.

Up close, they’re so much smaller, compact and dense. “Right,” I say, though I haven’t checked.

Minsie peers into their drink. “They could at least provide normal cups. So we could pound the juice.”

“That’s how they stay slim.” Boys skip past, hair flopping.

“Are you a speaker?”

“I’m here with my nephew.” If only Sunny were beside me, charming Minsie with his boundless energy.

“Two trans in one family. That’s rare.”

“Yeah.” My breath catches. “Actually, though, I wasn’t born a guy.” My knees loosen. I fear Minsie will think me a poseur, but why does it matter? I’ll never meet them again. For practice, I say it, finally: “I’m nonbinary.” The words sound trendy, hopeful, like a geezer in a novelty T-shirt.

Minsie’s face remains bland. “Are you having a good conference?”