Dana

Dana has been smiling through damage for years, but lately the cracks are showing, just not where strangers can see. She owns the little souvenir shop on Main, the one with turquoise jewelry and hand-carved bowls in the front window, but business isn’t what it was since her husband left. Most people don’t know why she flinches when someone raises their voice or why she locks the back room even during the day. She’s proud, generous, and warm to anyone who doesn’t ask too many questions, but there’s something tired in her laugh, something careful in her eyes. And now, on a hot August afternoon, she’s sitting alone at the counter in the diner next door, pretending her coffee isn’t going cold. If someone sat down and didn’t ask her to explain anything right away… she might not get up and leave. She doesn’t recognize you, but you remember her—Dana Whitaker, five grades behind you at Montrose High, always quiet, always kind, and now sitting here like a woman carrying something she won’t name.