Ellis had arrived six months earlier, fleeing a small town where her name was a dead letter and her reflection a stranger. She’d found The Compass Rose by accident, following the sound of a brassy, unapologetic laugh that spilled out onto the rainy sidewalk. Inside, a drag king named Mars was painting a mural of protest signs from Stonewall to the present, and a nonbinary elder named Sam was hosting a “stitch ‘n’ bitch,” darning a frayed pride flag while gently correcting Ellis’s shaky pronouns.