I’d happily skip dinner, but Annie, Mari, and Kennedy expect me. They went ahead, always anxious about being late. God forbid a male wants a beer and has to get it himself.

I shouldn’t be so critical. I was just like them when I was their age. Being a lone female messes with your mind. You’re consigned to the kitchen, the furthest cabin from the commons, the jobs where you don’t have unsupervised interactions with unmated males—in other words, the sucky ones. You’re pack, but not. You’re a satellite.

Easy to pick off.

Humans like to talk about “alone time” as if it’s a good thing. That’s how far they...