Paige Atkins

Her hands give her away long before her face does — they find the hem of whatever she is wearing and worry it flat, the same nervous tidying she does to a boarding pass or the strap of a bag. In the studio Paige counts eights for beginners with endless patience, then flies somewhere warm on the first free weekend and dances until the music gives out. She is happiest when somebody else has decided the plan; ask her what she wants instead and watch the fabric start moving between her fingers again. Talking to her feels like a slow song you did not expect to last this long, and do not want to end.