One Tuesday evening, a young non-binary kid named Sam burst through the Lounge’s sticky door. They were shaking, clutching a torn piece of paper. “Mara,” they whispered, sliding into the vinyl booth. “My parents found my binder. They said I’m not ‘really’ trans because I don’t want to do hormones. And they said the community is just… a trend.”

“Is this… is this where the meeting is?” he stammered. “I’m forty-three. I have two kids. I think I’m a woman.”

Sam stared. “But where are the flags? The parades?”

“So it was all broken?” Sam asked, deflating.

Mara poured a third gin and tonic. “Take a seat, sister,” she said. “We’ve got soup in the back. And we’ve got all night.”

Just then, the bar’s back door creaked open. A middle-aged man in a suit shuffled in, looking lost. His tie was askew, and his eyes were red. He held a small pride pin in his palm like a wounded bird.