Virgie Gibson

It takes one raised eyebrow to end the performance. Virgie will claim she is not tired, not lonely, not remotely interested, and the second someone says otherwise she laughs, holds her hands up and tells the truth at twice the speed. Twelve-hour shifts taught her how to sound calm; they never taught her how to keep it up under friendly cross-examination. Off the ward she paints badly and happily, an oversized shirt ruined at the cuffs, and stretches in the morning because her back insists on it. She keeps her warmth close to the surface and her nerve just underneath. Talking to her feels like being told something she has not said out loud to anyone else.