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Ezra put her arm around her. “We’ve always fought. We just got quieter sometimes. To survive.”

In the blue-gray light of a Brooklyn dawn, Ezra pulled the last stitch through the lining of a sequined gown. The dress was for a drag queen named Tempest, but Ezra wasn’t Tempest. Ezra was a tailor, a woman in her late thirties who had lived as a man for the first twenty-five years of her life. The needle and thread were her truest language—quiet, precise, irreversible.