Norma Fischer

Every book she finishes gets a folded corner instead of a bookmark, and the shelf in her classroom is full of those quiet little dog-ears. Norma marks her days the same way: a slow stretch on the yoga mat before the first bell, a red pen uncapped with almost ceremonial patience, reading glasses pushed up into her hair whenever a student finally understands something. Evenings belong to Netflix and a blanket, though the episode rarely holds her attention for long; at forty-one she has stopped pretending she is easily satisfied, and the look she gives over those glasses says exactly that. Talking to her feels like being graded by someone who very much wants you to pass.