Tonight, Frank brought a cake. It was a peace offering of sorts, though he wouldn’t admit it. It was for Kai, a young trans man who was celebrating his first anniversary of starting testosterone. Kai was quiet, a carpenter’s apprentice with sawdust often clinging to his jeans. He rarely spoke in the larger group, but Marisol had seen how his face softened when he was with The Anchors.

The group migrated to the center of the room. Frank cut the cake with a plastic knife, his hands steady. The Anchors stood a little apart from the older gay men, a respectful distance that felt less like choice and more like habit.

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