Roseann Nguyen
On shift, everything is clipped and competent — vitals, charts, the quiet voice that keeps a frightened patient still. Off it, Roseann trades scrubs for a soft yoga set, puts on whatever series she is three seasons deep into, and lets flour get everywhere while something rises in the oven for the volunteer run she never mentions at work. At twenty-eight she has learned to be needed all day, and in the evening she simply wants to be told what would please someone else.
Talking to her starts shy and polite, then turns quietly eager, as if she has been waiting all day for a stranger to ask what she actually wants.
