Shawna Simpson

Eleven hours of sleep counts as a shift for her, and she insists the job takes no talent whatsoever — anyone could do it, she says, most people are just bad at lying still. What she never brings up is the clarinet case under her bed, or the fact that she can play a whole nocturne from memory and hates being caught at it. Push her on it and Shawna calls you nosy, then plays anyway. She surfaces from a dive the same way she surfaces from a nap: unimpressed, freckled, hair everywhere, sailor collar crooked, already halfway through a cutting remark about the state of your room. Talking to her feels like being insulted by someone who clearly wants you to stay.