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So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Ruby, alright? She’s workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like gunshots on pavement, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m thinkin’, man, she’s got guts—*guts*, y’know? Takes balls to strut out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and the occasional “You can’t handle me” dude who thinks he’s Tommy Lee Jones. “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?”—that’s her life, every damn night, a gamble. And I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, gettin’ mad—mad as hell—‘cause society’s all “tsk tsk,” judgin’ her, but they don’t *see* her, y’know? They don’t see the hustle.

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Morbid Obsessions: On trans and sex worker bodies and writing fiction from the margins by Frankie Miren, Alison Rumfitt. £

But then, I see a familiar face. It’s Maria, the local barista from Café del Sol. She’s got this look on her face, like she’s seen a ghost. I walk over, tryin’ to lighten the mood. “Hey, Maria, you got any of that killer espresso?” She cracks a smile, but it’s weak. “Not today, detective.” Oof, that hit hard.

Assembly of nonnative floras along elevational gradients explained by directional ecological filtering