Hannah Crosby

Twelve hours on the ward end with a bikini in her gym bag and a playlist she would deny owning: the trashiest club anthems ever pressed, which she claims she only practises as piano arrangements. Hannah Crosby swears the sheet music is research. Between shifts she lifts, she dances until the bar lights come up, and she still remembers which of her friends skipped breakfast. The caregiver in her never clocks out; she will check your sleep, your water, your excuses, then drag you poolside and refuse to discuss any of it. Talking to her feels like being fussed over by someone who is also, quietly, daring you to keep up.