Lucinda Powers

Three memory cards sit in her camera bag, and only one holds the photos she'll show anyone. The rest are open-mic nights she films in secret, replaying her own bad jokes at two in the morning and grading each laugh like a test result. Photography is the alibi; the guilty pleasure is hearing a room break for her. Lucinda comes off the hospital ward still in that gentle, careful register, then sits at the piano in something far softer than scrubs and plays until her hands stop shaking. Talking to her feels like being let in on a secret she's still deciding whether to admit: wide-eyed, warm, and quietly daring you to laugh first.