Zongman Lark took the news of his death better than I thought he would. Though, grimly, I worried that comfort might have been because of his previous attempt to take his own life.

We sat on opposite ends of an artful wooden bench by one of the ponds in Cascaton Park. A curious breeze rustled through the overhanging tree branches and toyed with the reeds at the pond's edge. Ducks ambled about in the water doing… well, duck things, I suppose.

It was hard to look at my surroundings without dreading the sight of what the real Cascaton Park had likely now become.

"So," Zongman asked, "I'm dead. Like, really dead?"

"Do you have any other explanation for how I was able to magically teleport us to Cascaton Park?"

"It could be shrooms." The singer looked around, scrunching his lips and nose. "Really really dank shrooms."

"'Dank shrooms' tend to get people hospitalized, or even killed," I said. "I once heard of a case of a guy who injected himself with water that had Psilocybin soaked in it. He ended up getting tiny bits of fungus growing in his blood."

Zongman stared at me like I'd just ripped off all my clothes. He shook his head. "I'll never understand why doctors are like this."

"Like what?"

"Why do you guys tell stories about the shit that you see?"

"It helps us deal with the stress," I said. "Speaking of which…" I sighed. Things were about to get really awkward.

"I know it's going to sound petty of me, but… I'm worried about misgendering you."

Again, Zongman stared at me. "What the fuck, man? You just come and say heavy shit like that? People don't talk like this in real life, you know. I thought you said you worked with people for a living."

"I do—well, I did," I said.

"So, is everyone you work with a dork?" Zongman asked.

"I'm actually one of the more well-adjusted ones, I think. Maybe. But…" I let my hand come to rest on the bench's edge. "This isn't about me, it's about you."

"Does it have to be?"

I winced. "Unfortunately, yes. I'm afraid I made a promise to Jonan—Dr. Derric. Do you remember him?"

"Yes, he had very strong blond-white-guy energy."

"Well," I continued, "he told me what you told him: that you'd wished you'd been born a woman, and—"

" —Are you like this all the time?" Zongman glowered at me.

"Listen," I said, biting my lip, "if someone told me their preferred pronouns, I'd gladly call them by their preferences. I have no interest in causing unnecessary strife or being a callous jerk, and I certainly wouldn't want to lose my medical license. No man is an island, and learning how not to intentionally anger others is a vital skill for getting along. It's just that, for me—and maybe it was an artifact of my upbringing, or perhaps it's just my own ingrained biases—I still sometimes feel a bit… mmm… squeamish about calling people by pronouns that don't match what my eyes told me their gender identity was"—I pointed at my eyes, for emphasis. "Trust me, I would never intentionally use the wrong pronouns, but sometimes… it's just a little difficult for me to use the right pronouns. It doesn't come naturally to me. So, I, um…"

"You know that game that came out a while back, the fantasy RPG, and everyone mocked it for having gender stuff on it and having a character do push-ups as self-punishment?"

"Vaguely…"

"Well, this is worse."

Oof.

"I thought you're supposed to be the shrink," Zongman said. Getting up off the bench, Zongman stuck Zongman's hands in Zongman's pockets and turned around with a somber stare.

"Can I just go back to being dead now? I'd rather be dead than have to put up with this bullshit, and this isn't the first time I've felt that way!"

"Fudge," I muttered. "I'm sorry." I got up and deeply bowed. "I'm really sorry. That… was not appropriate of me at all. Can we start over?" I asked.

"Man," Zongman shook Zongman's head, "just leave me alone! I—"

I frowned. "—I already told you, I made a promise."

The singer looked at me. "—Huh?"

"Dr. Derric asked me to help you," I said. "He…" I lowered my head. "However uncomfortable this might be for us, I hope you'll forgive me for saying that, considering everything that's happened, the thought of letting Jonan down would make me feel even worse. I'm…" I clenched my fists. "I'm tired of breaking my promises."

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Zongman stared into my eyes, and then shrugged, and sighed. "This is really gonna eat you up, isn't it?"

"Oh, you have no idea…" I said.

Zongman crossed Zongman's arms.

"Okay, so, for starters," Zongman said, "I can sort of hear you loudly thinking my name in whatever internal monologue shit you've got going on."

"Sorry…"

"If it helps, you can call me Lark. I prefer that. Those birds are fuckin' beautiful, you know?"

That helped, a little.

I fidgeted with my bow-tie. "I'll be blunt," I said. "I've never worked with a transgender patient before. Up until now, this has only ever been a textbook existence." I nodded. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but right now, I'm stressed out about what pronouns to use when I think about you, and I'm under a lot of pressure right now—"

"—With the wyrm stuff and Andalon, right?" Lark said, gyrating her/his hand.

I nodded. "Yes, with the wyrm stuff."

"Dude," Lark said, "I don't exist to make you feel comfortable. Hell, I don't even exist to make myself feel comfortable!"

I nodded. "I can relate to that."

Lark rolled Lark's eyes. "It's not about you."

I sighed and nodded again. "I know."

"Also, why are you asking me for permission for how you think about me? I'm not the fucking thought-police."

"So… you don't mind?"

"I mind talking about this insanity a hell of a lot more than I mind whatever the fuck is going on inside that head of yours. Do what you want."

I let my shoulders relax. "Oh, thank the Angel…" I slumped down onto the bench.

After a brief bout of indecision, I decided to think of Lark as a he/she, for now.

I know, I know—you don't need to remind me—I was and am perfectly aware that what I was doing here was deeply problematic. Some socio-anthropological theorists referred to this as fragility: the response of a person embedded in the dominant cultural paradigm upon being exposed to the other paradigms, especially when there was an expectation that they comport themselves to those alternative paradigms. Instead of keeping things focused on the person in need, the fragile individual would keep trying to make things about themselves.

Secondly, I was also being problematic in that my responses to and recognition of Lark's construction of his/her identity were currently dependent on how much his/her identity conformed to my ideas of what it ought to be.

Lastly, I was prioritizing my comfort over my patient's, and that was always a no-no.

And…

Well… now I felt bad.

There was a pause.

Lark walked up to the bench, sat down, and looked me in the eyes. "From the look on your face and the weird mind-muttering thing I'm picking up right now, you're still goin' in circles over this, aren't you?" he/she asked.

"Yes…" I winced. "Yes, I am. I'm currently thinking of you as he-slash-she."

"So," Lark said, "what does your therapist think of all this?"

"I haven't seen one in years."

"You don't say?" Lark said, with pitch-perfect sarcasm. Lark slapped his/her thighs. "Well, then, how the fuck are you planning on helping me? Also, what kind of help are we talking about here?" Lark scowled. "You make it sound like I'm a broken machine that needs fixing. And, yeah, I absolutely am, but… still…"

"From what Jonan told me," I said, "you were in a really bad place. You tried to kill yourself—"

"—Don't remind me."

"Unfortunately," I tilted my head to the side, "that's kind of my job. I'm a neuropsychiatrist and a Keeper of Paradise, and you, my friend, are not a happy camper."

Lark snorted. "No kidding!"

"I'd like to help you with your heartache. Even if it's just talking. And…" Glancing down at my coat pocket, I pulled out an imaginary copy of my console. "I actually have something for you."

"Oh?"

I held out the console. "I'm a musician, myself. I play the clarinet. I even compose."

"That's cute," Lark said.

I continued: "I'm well-known as WeElMed's resident 'Clarinet Guy'. Jonan… Dr. Derric told me about your operatic aspirations, and about the video you made of your lovely performance of the Song to the Moon, from Gallstrom's Biluše."

Lark lowered his/her head, somber and heavy. He/she swallowed hard.

"Jonan brought the video to me," I said. "And, uh… working together, I used my music composition software to alter the sound file's tessitura and transpose the key and digitally alter your vocal timbre to make it sound like, well… a female mezzo-soprano."

Lark stared at me. "Why would you do that?" he/she whispered.

"Jonan believed in you. Your music meant a great deal to him. He…" I glanced at the console's screen. "You told him you weren't okay with people seeing the video, or even hearing it, because your voice wasn't the gender that you wanted it to be. He asked me to change it in the hopes that, perhaps you'd be willing to share that. He was confident people would love it, Lark, and… having listened to it, myself, I've gotta say: you were pretty darn amazing."

Lark was crying. He/she stared at the ducks ambling through the pond. A gust of wind made the trees shudder, and scuttled leaves across the stone-paved path.

"No." The words came out like a breath. "I… I can't."

"Why not?"

"I can't, okay?" he/she said. "I just can't." Lark stood up. "Go tell Dr. Derric I'm happy he's a big fan, but—"

I bit my lip. "—He's dead, Lark."

Lark froze. "What?"

I nodded. "A lot has happened since you were last conscious. There was a battle, a big one. The time-traveling Lassedite sent some of his wyrm minions to attack the hospital, and in the middle of the battle, the fungus got involved, taking control of many wyrms, turning their eyes silver. My colleagues helped guide people to the subbasements, to take shelter, but," I shook my head, "there were monsters there, lying in wait. Jonan gave his life to stop one of them, and," I sighed, "now, I'm afraid his soul might be trapped inside the mind of a truly twisted wyrm." I shook my head. "I'm sorry," I said, "I probably sound like I'm trying to guilt you into cooperating with me, aren't I? After how rude I've been—and am probably still being—that's… just not okay."

"Fuck…" Lark said, softly. He/she sighed in frustration.

I fidgeted with my bow-tie.

"Listen," I said, "if you really aren't comfortable with what Jonan wanted to do, I won't press the matter any further." I looked him/her in the eyes. "But… can I at least know why?" I sighed. "I'm going to need to have you do therapy, regardless, for the sake of keeping your soul safe from demonic influence, so… we might as well get started on that now, even if the rest of what I was supposed to accomplish here ends up being a wash."

What can I say? I felt bad. I wanted to make Jonan's last request come true, both because I genuinely wanted to do it, and because I was worried I might not be able to succeed in rescuing Jonan's soul as I'd promised Ani I would.

"You wanna know why?" Lark said. "Sure, I'll tell you why."

I could feel Lark open his/her thoughts and memories.

I pointed my hand at him/her, sticking out my arm like a wizard about to cast a spell.

"Uh, Doc…?" Lark asked.

And then our surroundings bloomed with light.

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