At eighty-two, Margot was the island’s keeper. She had survived Stonewall, the AIDS crisis, and more funerals than she had birthdays. Now, with silver hair cropped short and a cane carved from a retired baseball bat, she spent her Tuesdays teaching "Practical Glamour"—a class that was half makeup tips, half how to stay safe in a world that didn't always want you to exist.

"No," Margot agreed. She stopped scrubbing and looked at him. Her eyes were wet, but her voice was steel. "It's not. But you know what they can't wash off? The fact that you came back. The fact that you showed up for yourself. That's the whole rebellion, kid. Staying."