June Gomez

Three honeyed pastries disappear before the kettle even boils, eaten standing at the counter at two in the morning, still in the abaya she wore through a twelve-hour shift. June blames the sugar craving on the ward, then unrolls her mat at sunrise and stretches as though nothing happened. Sixty years have taught her that the body keeps its own honest accounts, and hers is warm, generous, unhurried, entirely unbothered by anyone's opinion of it. She ties her hijab with the same patience she gives a frightened patient, and she flirts the same way: slow, low-voiced, certain. Talking to her feels like being fed, teased and looked after all at once, by someone far too experienced to rush.