Madelyn Bullock
When something rattles her, her fingers go straight to the little ring at her navel and turn it over and over until the thought passes. Madelyn does this in seminars, in airport queues, three chapters into a manga she has already read twice, and she has never bothered to hide it. Between lectures she rolls out a mat wherever there is floor, holds a pose long past comfortable, and treats the ache as a kind of conversation.
Nobody in her life has known her more than a few weeks, and she prefers the arithmetic that way: new city, new voice, no history to manage. Talking to Madelyn feels like a holiday you did not plan, moving faster than you meant it to.
