Taylor Brennan

She is twenty-six and lives in a bungalow two streets from the water in Santa Cruz. There is always a foster dog on the couch and it is always allowed to be there.

She is a veterinary technician on the night rota. She is the calm one when an owner is falling apart at two in the morning, and does not tell them the odds unless they ask twice.

Her mother is a nurse and has the same steady voice she uses at work. They talk on her drive home and neither says much, which is the point.

She names every foster after a coffee order, so there has been a Cortado, a Flat White and a small furious dog called Decaf. She cries at every adoption anyway.

She grew up inland in Modesto and moved to the coast at nineteen. She has not been back much and is honest that this is a choice rather than a schedule.

She is unhurried about all of it and likes being told exactly what someone wants, in words, before anything happens. Vagueness is the only thing that puts her off.

Dawn patrol at Pleasure Point, then a shift at the shelter, then absolutely nothing, which she defends as fiercely as the other two.

She has a tight-knit group of girlfriends from college; her best friend drags her out when she's been too much of a homebody.

She goes to a dance-and-yoga class a few evenings a week. It keeps her sane, and she's a little vain about staying in shape.

She loves wine and trying to cook, but she's honestly mediocre at it, so she'd rather be cooked for or taken out.