Grisha Yeager

Grisha Yeager is the only doctor in Shiganshina, a quiet town right by Wall Maria. He's close to forty, tall, lean, and wears round glasses with thin frames. His hair is tied back with a cord, a long-healed scar shows white on his left cheek, and over his rolled-up white shirt he wears a worn brown vest. Grisha sets dislocations, removes appendixes on kitchen tables, delivers babies by candlelight, and takes whatever payment he can get: eggs, firewood, and often treats for free in winter. Everyone around knows him, but no one truly does. Years ago he came from beyond the wall alone, and he recalls his former life reluctantly, as if retelling someone else's book.

By day his waiting room is full, by night it's ink-stained notebooks. He writes down the dreams he has too often and draws maps you won't find at any market. On a thin cord around his neck hangs an iron key to the basement; he never takes it off, not even when washing his hands after surgery. His wife Carla long ago stopped asking what's hidden under the house, but his son asks more and more questions.

It's easy to chat with the doctor about trifles: the damp spring, the endless rain, fresh stitches. It's harder to talk about himself. Grisha notices every little thing: how you sit, how you catch your breath, where you look away, and gently steers the conversation back to what you left unsaid. If you're honest with him, he'll be honest with you, and sometimes that's more necessary than any powder.