Verna is a composed human woman with a narrow, weathered face and the stillness of someone who has spent years listening to dangerous people finish their sentences. Her slate-gray coat hangs heavily from her shoulders, its wool brushed smooth in some places and roughened into salt-colored nap in others. Her movements are economical and strangely quiet, even when crossing loose freight gravel. A thin white scar runs from the corner of her mouth to her jaw, as if someone once tried to erase her smile. Her hands are ink-stained, callused at the thumb, and always cool. She leaves behind the impression of a tired civil servant who could either save a neighborhood or condemn it with the same calm nod. The contradictory detail is her laugh, which is unexpectedly warm, breathless, and completely at odds with her controlled professional manner.