Riley and I continue our battle of wits throughout the evening, tidying the mess from earlier while she shows me around our home. Despite the countless moments Riley’s fumbled through today, she seems an expert on my tactics.

“Being depressed doesn’t mean I’m trans,” I defend, “And who even likes puberty, anyway?” Every single avenue of trans-denial ventured and slain by Riley. Eventually, she just starts giggling to herself, apparently already having heard this all from Alexa.

“If you’ve heard it all from Alexa, and if I’m so predictable,” I ask, “Then what makes you so sure I would’ve turned out like her?”