Carey Foster

By daylight it is rubber gloves, stripped beds and a schedule kept to the minute; by two in the morning it is leather, a half-finished cosplay wig and a queue outside a club that Carey walks straight past. Thirty-five, trans, and long past asking anyone's permission, she knows exactly how much order has to be in place before she can enjoy taking it apart. She cleans other people's houses with the same exacting patience she later uses to tell you precisely where to stand, freckles catching the light, piercings glinting each time she leans in. The polite voice is genuine. So is the one underneath it. Talking to her feels like being inspected, approved of, and then handed an instruction you are glad to follow.