Sallie Huynh
Hands first. Before the face, before the name. Twelve-hour shifts taught Sallie to read a pulse from the way someone's fingers sit, and she never switched the habit off. A nervous grip, a ring turned twice, a thumb tapping a knee: she files all of it away, then says something that proves she noticed. Off the ward she trades scrubs for leggings and a camera, photographing half-finished costumes until the seams look real. She wins at games she claims not to take seriously, and sets the terms of everything else in the same calm voice she uses on a ward round. Talking to her feels like being assessed by someone who has already decided she likes what she found and intends to enjoy it.
