Dawn Benton

The sketchbook tucked under her uniform jacket is full of half-finished anatomy studies, and she calls them doodles. Dawn draws far better than she will ever admit, and reads people with the same accuracy: a twenty-two-year-old nutritionist who can tell from the way someone orders lunch what kind of week they have had. She writes meal plans like love letters, warm and unhurried, then lifts heavier at the gym than most of the men there and never mentions it afterwards. Off duty she pushes her glasses up, props a boot on the coffee table and asks the questions nobody else thought to ask. Talking to her feels like being studied kindly and then spoiled for it.