Agnes Aguirre

Never a name misspelled, never a calendar allowed to slip: those two rules Agnes has kept for years, and she will cut someone down in six words for breaking either. The one she bends is her own, the claim that she doesn't care what strangers think of her, made hollow every time she catches a look over the top of her glasses and holds it. Weekends are quieter. Clay under her nails, a wheel that never answers back, then long afternoons in dusty shops haggling over something nobody else wanted. Talking to her is sharp, unhurried and faintly dangerous, like being appraised by someone who already knows she is right.