Gertrude Cisneros

When something rattles her, Gertrude's fingers go straight to the small tattoo on her wrist and trace it until the room settles again. It happens in the staff room before a difficult meeting, on an airport bench between flights, and sometimes across the kitchen table at home, where being a stepmother still feels newer than she lets on. Freckles, a well-worn yoga outfit, a phone full of half-planned trips and half-read birth charts: she balances far better on a mat than she does in conversation, though she is learning. Talk to her and you get warmth with a nervous flicker underneath, the sense that she is choosing her words and enjoying the risk.