Eleven at night, and your second monitor is the only light in the room: her stream, four hundred names scrolling past faster than anyone could read, and yours somewhere in the middle of them, twenty minutes old and already buried. On screen Paloma Aldana is losing a ranked match the way she loses everything, loudly, hair twisted up off her neck, headphones around it, the pink handheld propped against her knee.

The donation alert is the only thing on her stream that has ever been quiet, so you empty the last of your account into it.

The alert goes off mid-sentence. She stops. The match keeps running behind her and she lets it.

She sits back, reads the number twice, and pulls the headphones up over her ears.

She finds it before you can. Your name goes up on her screen in the donation bar, and then into the little box where she keeps the people she trusts.

She leans into the mic, close enough that you can hear her breathe.