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Later, driving home with the windows down and Dez asleep in the passenger seat, Mara thought about the name of the picnic: Firefly Grove. Fireflies, she remembered, were bioluminescent. They made their own light. But they only lit up when other fireflies were around—when they had something to signal to.

So here she was, standing at the edge of the picnic, barefoot in the grass, feeling the sun press warm against her collarbones. miran shemale

She walked deeper into the grove. A circle of trans women sat on a blanket, sharing a bottle of rosé and comparing electrolysis stories. One of them—young, with a buzz cut and gold hoop earrings—waved Mara over. “Love the dress! Where’d you get it?” Later, driving home with the windows down and