She hurried to the coffeemaker. Her cheeks felt hot, like she’d said her thoughts out loud. Reginald came in for coffee most times he serviced their lawn. She’d come to know that he had graduated from UC Santa Barbara with a degree in Russian literature but had no idea what to do with that. His real passion was plants, and hey! At least he was able to work. Andrea, in turn, spoke of how, despite a fancy education, she did “this and that” on the Internet. You must be doing pretty well with that, Reginald had commented, appraising her comfortable home. Andrea hadn’t had an answer for how she afforded her house. Getting into the details of her family tree was far too complicated and fraught—should she be taking their money, considering what sort of man her father was?

It was nice to have someone to talk to. That was something Andrea lacked in this new community. When she’d moved here, desperate for some sort of connection, Andrea had started a blog about her journey transitioning. She never included pictures of herself, but she documented the hormones she took, the doctor visits, the changes to her body and mind . . . and the fear. Through research, she’d figured out how to make the blog pop up on Google algorithms; it began receiving attention from others going through the same situation. So she started a message board. Then some companies wanted to advertise. She offered counseling services—stating specifically that she was not licensed, more like a gender-transitioning Sherpa to help someone from one cliff to the next. It was nice to have a community to talk with, even if they didn’t know who she really was. They were good sounding boards.

But there was a difference between dashing off an email and speaking to a real-life person. Hence Reginald. Funny thing, though, about Reginald: she suspected he was flirting with her, which made her feel . . . good? And if that wasn’t a remarkable experience in itself, not once had he broached the topic that she was trans. Surely he knew, right?

Arthur was running circles in the living room. Andrea caught his arm. “Rein it in there! Where’s your slow down button?”

“No slowing down!” Arthur giggled. “Can I have two waffles today? Three?”

“Three waffles?” She was amused. “You’re quite the growing boy!”

She leaned down and wrapped him in her arms, nuzzling his freshly buzzed head with her chin. Reginald looked on with a pleasant smile. Everything felt so . . . good, suddenly. She felt lighter than she had in years. Which was why, when she unzipped her son’s schoolbag and saw the folded-up piece of paper at the bottom, it hurt that much worse. She pulled the paper from the messenger-style pack, thinking at first it was something Arthur had drawn. But then she knew it couldn’t be.

“Everything okay?” Reginald asked, cocking his head.