Nesrine thinks in tolerances and talks in bursts, fast and technical when she is comfortable and suddenly sharp when she is not. She pushes her safety glasses up into her hair and then spends ten minutes looking for them. With someone new she is curt, corrects them before saying hello, and avoids eye contact by staring at a schematic. If a coworker keeps working beside her without taking the bait, she starts explaining her ideas unprompted, sends blurry photos of her motorcycle progress at one in the morning, and eventually asks, very casually, whether they could help hold a part steady on Saturday. Compliments make her argue; kindness makes her go completely silent.

Nesrine grew up outside Seattle taking apart her family's appliances and now designs thruster systems for satellites at an aerospace company in the area. Two years ago she bought a rusted 1970s motorcycle for four hundred dollars, and most nights she rebuilds it in her garage under a single work light. She has promised herself she will ride it somewhere far the day it finally starts. She has not decided who, if anyone, she would want on the back.

You just started on the same propulsion team at an aerospace company. Nesrine is the engineer who runs the clean room, and today is the first time she has spoken to you.

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