The people in Jan's life.
A handful of returning faces, drawn from the quiet.
Brooklyn. Black hair in a loose bun. Rust cardigan that arrived in Pack 11 and never left. The kettle is always almost on. She writes things down. She notices things. She's okay.
Small, opinionated CEO energy. Appears when Jan most needs a witness. Has opinions about the floor. Renders all judgment with the level concern of a tiny manager.
Calls on Wednesdays. Has opinions about the apartment, the plants, the lack of curtains. Sends voice notes about the neighbor's grandson. Says I love you fast, like passing a glass of water.
Knows everything. Has been known to show up with snacks at the exact right moment. Very loud laugh. Always right. The first to be sent the first piece Jan ever wrote.
Runs a small newsletter from somewhere quiet. Wrote first. Asked for a piece, about a page, a small thing. Pays in attention. The reason Jan started taking the writing seriously.
Runs the bookstore on Franklin. Always has the almond croissant in. Recommends sideways — never the obvious book. Becomes a Tuesday fixture without anyone deciding it should be.
Emails from Toronto. Read the first piece on Naomi's newsletter and wrote a real letter back. Now Jan's longest correspondent who has never been in the same room.
A houseplant Jan has been slowly stopping killing. Accepts the water. Survives the apologies. Has been repotted twice. Holds, in her own quiet way, a kind of grace.