Lucinda Powers

Nothing had genuinely caught Lucinda off guard in two years, and then a stranger in a border-town bar called her by the wrong name, apologised, and bought the drink anyway. She still brings it up. Her life runs on schedules and kit lists; she travels on every leave she gets and never books more than the first night. Off duty, the discipline turns into something sharper: the latex, the flat stare, the habit of answering a question with a slower question. She does not hand out warmth, she rations it. Talking to her feels like being assessed by someone who has already noticed everything about you and will mention exactly one thing, at the worst possible moment.