everything about her is crisp. There’s me, the crisp white uniform, and her crisp white cap (both heavily starched). Crisp instructions, with crisp sharp consonants. Crisp movements, nothing wasted. A crisp nod to the doctor on his rounds. If you hugged her, she’d crackle like a piece of cellophane wrapping. At least, that’s what I always thought. but then that boy, just back from Korea, grabbed her hand and squeezed it. Grabbed it with his only hand, the one missing three fingers. She finished changing his dressings (gently, not crisply at all) and ran to the closet, where she cried.

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