Marsha P. Johnson was quoted as saying, "If you think you know everything, you're not listening." This quote, among others, had a big impact on Zina during her self-discovery stages. She attended her first pride parade with a small group of friends at the age of twenty-three, several months before beginning her transition. Things were very different back then.

In two months, Zina was getting married. Her wedding plans had been a flurry of chaos; she and her fiance had such differing visions for the day. It certainly didn't help that her brother, River, was unruly, coming home at all hours of the night, drunk. It had been like this, mostly, since he moved in with her eight months ago. Before this, Zina had no idea where he lived.

Across the street, there was a cloud of smoke surrounding a large home. Zina, along with several other firefighters, had arrived on scene only moments ago to survey the damage. Zina worked long hours and rarely slept, and this was rewarding to her. She'd always dreamed of spending her life helping those in need. Between working and wedding planning, Zina had very little free time. She was fine with this.

There were small children and animals trapped inside the home. Adjusting her helmet, Zina ran toward the entrance.

She'd met her fiance, Atticus, on social media, and spoke to him for many months before agreeing to a date. The hardest part of dating as a trans woman was the consistent fear of being stalked or killed. Atticus was not a man who was threatened by many things.

The large home had smoke up to the ceiling. A young girl cowered, coughing, over a dog in the room's corner. Zina remembered being a child. If only there had been someone to save her then, too.

The girl was very weak. She'd gotten one leg stuck between the wall and the arm of the couch, and her frantic parents had been unable to free her. Outside, there were several paramedics on scene. "Hi, sweetheart." Zina approached the girl cautiously. She'd been crying, which was to be expected. "You're going to be okay." In most cases, the main cause of death in a home fire was smoke inhalation. Smoke was thick, so thick that Zina couldn't see further than her outstretched arm. The most important part of any rescue was to block the airway from breathing in hot smoke. She'd lost people in a rescue before. Sometimes, no matter how efficiently you got things done, time just ran out. "Take my hands." Freeing the child was difficult, but adrenaline could make a person accomplish incredible things.

On the scene of a fire, people were everywhere. Police officers, ambulances, onlookers – it became necessary to block off the scene at times. The dog, who refused to leave the girl's side, panted. It wasn't uncommon for an animal to become trapped in a house fire. It followed close behind, bounding out the door as soon as Zina opened it. After a while, crying became too exhausting for a child. Most became woozy and disoriented on their way to the ambulance on scene.

Zina spent seven years studying to become a firefighter. At twenty-six, she was the youngest of the city's fire crew, and often felt a need to prove herself. The young girl's parents had both already been seen by paramedics, and sobbed when their daughter was pulled from the wreckage. It was an exhausting and dangerous job, but this made it rewarding.

Her fiance, Atticus, worked as a mechanic and often came home covered in grease and dirt. She had to admit this made him quite attractive.

Two days ago, Mary turned nineteen, and all she wanted was a quiet afternoon alone. Zina hated to admit it, but Mary was a rather neglectful mother. The issue was: it was difficult to take care of another person without the ability to take care of yourself.

Last spring, Zina received an orchiectomy. This fall, she was lined up for a vaginoplasty. It wasn't mandatory, with these types of surgeries, for a transgender woman to receive. It wasn't mandatory for her to transition at all. Zina had spent her childhood trying to appease others at the risk of her mental health, and she was tired. Monty, who came out to her when he was seven, took her place as peacekeeper when she moved out. This wasn't fair. For years, Zina had wanted to take him in. For years, he'd been fighting with Orion about leaving the house.

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Zina got home from work late, hot and exhausted. The Main Event of the day hadn't been by far the only rescue she'd been sent to, though it had been the most draining. Zina wasn't sure she wanted to be a mother. As a kid, her mother had said it was her duty to get a good job and support a wife and children. Maybe that was the duty of a man. It wasn't Zina.

It was rare for the home to be quiet. River was a flurry of chaos: erratic and insecure, channelling his instability into video games and abstract art. Zina pitied him a lot of the time. River was a couch surfer who never stayed in one place for long, but who worried people when he took off (which was often). His room was at the bottom of the stairs, always strewn with art supplies and bottles. When River was in a Mood, he wouldn't leave his room.

"Hey," said Zina, locking the front door. It wasn't often her fiance was home before her. When he was, dinner was always prepared by the time she got home. "Is River home?"

The men didn't like each other, but managed to be civil for the sake of ZIna's happiness. Atticus was taller than her, which was impressive. "Yeah." He sat at the table, sorting through the mail, letting each envelope fall to the table. "I wanted to talk to you about that."

There was music coming from the basement. Atticus was a man who liked his peace. "Did something happen?" Her jacket was heavy and hot; she removed it. "You know River's unstable." Each of the siblings had a close friend within the family. For the younger kids, it was always an older sibling. The problem with being River's favourite person was that it was very dangerous to make him upset.

When Zina met Atticus, she'd been living at the farm, speaking to him in private on a phone Salem had snuck in to her. They lived in a large home, quite different from the rest in its neighbourhood, and kept spotless. The master bedroom was River's now, and it was never clean.

Atticus stood for a glass of water, brushing Zina's arm. "He can't live here anymore. You have to tell him to find somewhere else."

Atticus, truthfully, had been patient with River's outbursts over the past few months. Even the most patient of men had their limits. He watched Zina's face, knowing he would have upset her. The difficulty was that it didn't just affect River anymore. It hadn't for a long time. When he was here, Zina knew he was safe.

"You know I can't do that. He'll have a breakdown."

This was true. But what was more true was that at some point, a person had to look out for themselves first.

It was hard to be mean, but tough love was the only choice sometimes. Zina's mother seemed to know this better than anyone. Atticus sighed, placed his hands onto Zina's shoulders. They were heavy. "I know you love him, Zina. You know as well as I do that it isn't good for him here. You baby him." She'd never admit this. It was hard to admit your own shortcomings. Atticus had golden skin, and thick black hair that spilled over his shoulders. Zina had always been weak for a chiselled man. "Think about how nice it'd be to have all the space all to ourselves. We want to make a home for ourselves, right?”

River ran away from home for the first time at twelve years old. If Zina hadn't gone after him, he probably wouldn't have made it back home.

She frowned. "Fine. I'll talk to him. But it is not going to go over well."

If you asked Zina's friends, they'd say she was always in a hurry. Even on the most laid-back of days, she always acted as though she was late for an important meeting. This frustrated Atticus to the core, but Zina never could seem to get herself to slow down and take a moment.

"River?"

His door was always closed. Perhaps this was where he felt safest. When Zina rapped on the door, the music stopped.

In the far corner, there was a four foot easel. This was one of the few things River had had in his possession when moving in. He was very thin and rarely came upstairs to eat – but the room was scattered with snack wrappers and plastic water bottles. He grinned. "Hey, Z. What's up?"

It was true what they said about artists. They had the most tortured souls.

She sat, shutting the door behind her. "We need to talk."