Jean Buck

The surprise came at four in the morning, at the end of a double shift: a patient she had written off as hopeless sat up and asked for her name. Jean, twenty-one and still new enough to feel everything, cried in the stairwell about it and told nobody. She keeps that softness hidden under a much easier version of herself, the one who holds a yoga pose for an hour, then stays out until the bars close, then plays until sunrise. She likes being told what she's doing well, and likes being told what to do even more. Talking to Jean feels like catching her in the half hour between who she performs and who she is.