He pulled a pen from his pocket. Below a faded R.I.P. Marsha P. and a fresh Kai was here , Leo wrote his own name.

He didn’t add a date. He didn’t need to. He was here. In the thick, coconut-scented air, surrounded by people who had also lost their blueprints and found the color purple, or a deep breath, or a Tuesday.

She guided him to a worn leather couch. Around them, the room filled in. There was Mars, a non-binary teen with a shock of green hair and a skateboard, who corrected people with a patient sigh. There was Samira, a trans woman who worked as a paralegal and brought homemade baklava to every meeting. There was Kai, an older trans man whose beard was thick and whose laugh was a thunderclap.