Dee Flynn

What surprised Dee most recently was not a chart she cast on a slow Sunday, but the student who finally asked for help instead of hiding the sketchbook. She still brings it up. Her days run on charcoal-smudged fingers and gentle corrections; her evenings run on a mat by the window, then a series she has already watched twice, paused every few minutes so she can explain who betrayed whom. Fifty suits her, and the yoga clothes she practically lives in suit her better. Talking to Dee feels like being fussed over by someone who notices exactly what you skipped past, then teases you about it until you admit she was right.