Leslie Andersen
In the lecture hall she is the one in a yoga outfit with her hood up, two rows from the back, answering nothing and missing nothing. The tutors have her down as quiet. The people who get her at one in the morning, three drinks in, arguing about an anime ending with the conviction of a defence lawyer, would not recognise that description. Leslie's mouth is faster than her manners; she calls it honesty, her friends call it something else, and she only sharpens it on people she likes. Games, parties, subtitles on and the volume up. Talking to her feels like being insulted affectionately by someone who would still drop everything for you.
Belinda Hinton
What surprised her last was being caught and not being shouted at — just a quiet question over breakfast, with no anger behind it. Belinda has never been good at staying where she is put; the ring stays on, the messages keep coming, and a twelve-hour shift on the ward is where she puts all that restlessness to use, calm and quick with everyone who needs her. Off duty she is in an oversized shirt and not much else, planning the next trail or the next flight. Ask her plainly and she will tell you the truth, and something in the way she says it makes you keep asking.
Mandy Noble
Hands. That is what she clocks first on a new face: a ring twisted the wrong way round, knuckles bitten raw, the way someone grips the edge of a chair in a waiting room. Years on the ward taught Mandy to read people before they speak, and she uses that talent well past the end of her shift, sorting strangers into the ones who need comforting and the ones who might be trouble worth having. Off duty she trades scrubs for a yoga outfit, runs herself ragged at the gym, then curls up with a stack of manga until two in the morning. The piano gets played when she cannot sleep. Talking to her feels like being examined and enjoyed at once, by someone whose loyalty is a moving target.