Kane awoke to the insidious craft of these questions too slowly to work his way out of them. It was as though the lights had come up on a stage he didn’t know he was standing on, revealing a play he didn’t realize he was performing in. The play was a tragedy. He was the lead: a gay boy, lonely, suicidal, brimming with angst. He had played his part beautifully.

Even now, Kane’s whole body burned in humiliation. His parents had been there. They’d whispered with Thistler after, in the hall, and their whispering continued until the next day when they sat Kane down and told him about the psych evaluation. Kane’s second chance.

“You’re a Montgomery,” Dad had said. “That means something in this town, you know. Your uncle is on the force.”

“You’re lucky,” Mom had said. “They’re giving you a chance to prove you’re committed to helping yourself. Not everyone gets that, sweetie.”

“You’re screwed,” Sophia had said. “They think you’re nuts. You’re gonna have to figure this out for yourself. Prove them all wrong.”

And that’s how they’d ended up at the mill.

Fear splintered through Kane’s guts. If he made it through this conversation with Thistler, he promised he’d never go back to the Cobalt Complex. He’d never even wonder about it.

The door to the Soft Room opened.

Kane burst to his feet. “Detective Thistler, I can explain—”

But it wasn’t Thistler at the door, or even Kane’s parents. Framed in the cold light of the hallway was someone entirely new to Kane’s small, disastrous world.

“Mr. Montgomery? I hope you weren’t waiting long in this dim, sad place. I left as soon as I got the call.”

The person said this with humor, in a voice adorned with theatric flourish that warmed the small room. They wore a fitted suit sashed at the waist and sleek pants trimmed in satin, all of their outfit rendered in a rich, golden fabric that revealed an elusive pattern beneath the lamplight. Even their skin glowed with a gold luster, shifting as they sat. Kane sat, too, a bit dazzled by the person’s faultless face, which would not allow him to answer the question as to whether this person was a man, a woman, both, or neither.

They slipped a pad of paper from their bag and peered at Kane through curled lashes.

“What, you’ve never seen a man in mascara?” he said, answering the question on Kane’s face.

“I’m sorry.” Kane’s cheeks burned. How often had this man caught people staring? How many times had he been asked that question? How many more times had he answered it without being asked, just for the sake of people uncomfortable with ambiguity, who ignored what this person had to say while instead wondering viciously at his identity?