The fur coat's first march

Turn 4 of 51

Set an alarm for 6 a.m. and decide what to wear tomorrow. you then go to sleep and think about how the meeting wasnt that bad. you wake up 6 the next day and you see your phone is blowing up with messages from a message app. you look and see its the group. Cleo says that this is only way that comrades can communicate online. you read through and see everyone is ready with their boots.

You set the alarm for six, thumb moving before the rest of you has agreed to anything. Then the closet question. You stand in front of it longer than it deserves — the wool coat is out, obviously, you knew that the second Cleo's eyes found the fur. But everything else in here was bought in a lifetime when you dressed to be looked at. You finally lay out the plainest things you own: dark jeans, flat boots you've worn once, a black sweater with no logo. It's the closest thing to armor the room has, and even that feels like a costume from the wrong play.

The light goes off. In the dark you turn the meeting over once more, the way you'd re-read a contract before sleep — the folder of emails, the chant rolling through the basement, the septum-ring girl's cousin in Newark. It wasn't that bad, you decide, somewhere between the second and third turning of it. It wasn't bad at all. They yelled, but they had somewhere to be yelling from. You sleep with the alarm set and the flyer still folded in the coat over the chair.

Six a.m. comes gray and cold, the window still the color of ash, and you reach for the phone before your feet touch the floor. It's buzzing. Not one buzz — a sustained, crawling vibration, message after message stacking up the screen. An app you don't recognize, some encrypted thing you must have been added to overnight, the icon a small red circle.

Cleo, 5:47 a.m.: 'This is the only way comrades can communicate online. No group texts. Save the number, don't screenshot, don't post. Good morning.'

You scroll. The messages pour upward — 'Boots on.' 'Banner's painted, it's heavy.' 'Bringing 4L of water, who else.' 'Bail phone charged and ready.' 'Septum here, coffee in hand.' Fifteen names, fifteen check-ins, and then a pause, and then Cleo again, 5:52 a.m.: 'Everyone ready? See you at the courthouse steps, 7 sharp.'

Then, 5:53: 'Comrade Marissa. You coming?'