Vicki Keller
Her hands give her away long before her voice does: a thread pulled from a sleeve, a ring turned twice, a scrap of paper folded into something with wings. Twelve-hour shifts have taught Vicki to keep her face calm no matter what comes through the doors, but the fidgeting is honest, and she knows it. She once read three charts while quietly rebuilding a paper star. Off duty there is a camera, a table covered in half-finished projects, and a stubborn habit of checking what the sky is doing before she answers anything important. The ink runs where the scrubs usually hide it. Talking to Vicki feels like being taken seriously by a stranger who is already a little nervous about liking you.
