The raid wasn’t on her block, but Eliza heard about it anyway. Sirens cut across the river like torn fabric, the wail carried by damp summer air. She sat in the corner of the café, spoon tracing circles in a cup gone watery with melted ice. The muted TV above the counter flashed its headline again and again, as if repetition could make it normal: New Federal Rule: Transgender Citizens Barred from Firearm Ownership.
The words crawled across the screen with bureaucratic calm. Her stomach twisted.
Two nights ago, they’d come for Michael in 3B. He was quiet, always careful with his grocery bags, each hand lugging the same number of cans so neither arm looked stronger. The agents had knocked once, then forced their way in when he didn’t answer fast enough. Through the stairwell she’d heard the officer explain—clinical, detached—mental health disqualification…new category: gender dysphoria. She hadn’t dared move until their boots had faded down the stairs.
Now, with her own application stuck “pending” at the licensing office, she didn’t need a letter to know what that meant. She was already on the wrong side of the law.
The barista cleared a nearby table. Eliza dropped her eyes, willing herself small, invisible.
Passing.
It had worked for years. But in this new city of raids and registries, shrinking didn’t protect you anymore.
Her apartment felt too quiet when she got back. The stairwell light flickered overhead as though warning her to turn away. She slid both locks, bolted the door, left her coat on.
The phone buzzed. Unknown number.
She let it ring out. Then it started again. Against every instinct, she answered.
“Eliza Martínez?” The voice was male, steady. Not official. Not hostile.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Charles Barlow. I’m an attorney with the NRA Legal Defense Fund.”
She barked a laugh. “That’s rich. The NRA doesn’t call girls like me.”
A pause. She imagined him seated at a desk stacked with paper, glasses slipping down his nose. “We’re reaching out because the government’s crossed a line. If they can strip a constitutional right from your community, they can strip it from anyone. This isn’t just about you. It’s about precedent.”
“Nice slogan,” she said. “Where were you before? While they came after IDs, passports, bathrooms?”
Barlow didn’t flinch. His tone stayed calm, almost gentle. “I’m not rewriting history, Ms. Martínez. I’m telling you we have a case. We can file suit, challenge this ban. You won’t have to pay a dime.”
She pressed the phone closer, breath shallow. The radiator hissed in the corner. Another siren bled through the window.
“You’ll make me a pawn,” she said.
“You’ll be a plaintiff,” he corrected.
The word landed like a stone. She pictured Michael’s door splintering, pictured her own shaking hands when she checked the locks at night. And then, faintly, she pictured standing in a courtroom, her deadname on the case title, the one thing she hadn’t been able to erase.
Silence stretched. Finally, she whispered, “Alright. I’ll do it.”