Edith’s tooth hurt all the way to Boston. This was the price for four years of avoiding dentists—fingers in her mouth, a drill hacking away rot, and a sickly yellow cap that she could not stop tonguing. What if it fell off in Boston and she was unable to eat? Were there dental emergency rooms? Her undergraduate advisor had been forced to get emergency dental work in England once and suffered consequences years later; she’d missed several thesis meetings. Edith settled, aching, against the shuttered window of the plane, waiting to be soothed by the engines’ tumble and roar.

Despite the pain, there was something satisfying in having rot cut away. There’d been a burning smell that reminded her of laser hair removal. A kind of magic that you could permanently remove a piece of your body that no longer served you. If only it were so easy to cut anything from your life.

What she hated was the fingers in her mouth. Unable to ask questions, or communicate at all except in grunts and cries of pain. Dentists never felt the need to explain themselves.

When Adam had invited her to read at the college where he taught, she’d been dubious. C’mon, he said, don’t you miss it up here?

Boston in February. October Texas sun bore down on her. How romantic.

Adam was one of the only people she’d kept in touch with from undergrad. They’d worked at the writing center together and both come out as trans afterward. We should have coordinated, she told him once. We could have swapped names.

In the eight years since college, she found she’d never really been friends with most of her classmates. Like prisoners of war, they’d been brought close by circumstances: the same stresses, same exams, same blue punch served from industrial gray trash cans. Edith had assumed these things were the bonds of real friendship. But even during her two postgrad years in Boston, she’d barely kept in touch with the people she’d once seen daily. Adam had been in grad school in New York. Mostly there’d been Tessa and Valerie. Edith’s contact with Tessa had been sporadic since they’d broken up. And even before Valerie died, she was the one who’d find you—who set the tone for every conversation.

I’d love to see you, Adam said. I know Tess would too.

If that were true, why wasn’t Tessa the one telling her?

Can the university pay me? Edith asked. A woman in a flesh-toned bathing suit swam laps in the courtyard pool.

We can pay for your flight.

Six nights, Wednesday to Tuesday. She’d been meaning to go back since she left. What was she afraid of?