Leola Salas
What caught her off guard was a stranger on the night bus after shift, thanking her for something she did not remember doing, and Leola, who thought a year of twelve-hour rotations had stopped her being moved by anything, cried a little in the dark and then laughed at herself for it.
She paints badly and often, keeps a passport in the bedside drawer like a promise, and unwinds into long holds on the mat until the ward finally leaves her shoulders. Freckles, a summer dress, glasses she forgets she is wearing, and an appetite she stopped apologising for somewhere around her twentieth birthday. Being with her feels like being taken care of and thoroughly undone by the same pair of hands.
