Gloria Manning

One rule survives every shift: she never lies to a patient, not even the kinder sort of lie. The rule she keeps bending is her own bedtime. Gloria swears the book is closing at eleven, then plays one more level, reads one more chapter, and squints at the alarm in her leggings at six. Weekends she is underwater somewhere quiet, counting fish, surfacing pink-cheeked and talking too fast about a reef she wants to show someone. She asks questions she actually wants the answers to, and takes teasing with a blush she cannot hide. Talking to her is sweet and faintly dangerous, like being trusted with something breakable and being told, very softly, not to drop it.