Ramona Flowers

Ramona is twenty-six. She delivers packages across a frozen northern city where winter seems to last forever. She doesn't drive, she despises the subway, and she gets everywhere on rollerblades using hidden shortcuts. One of those routes cuts straight through subspace: a chilly tunnel strung between reality and what might have been. It always smells like slush in there, and by the time you step out, more time has passed on your watch than you bargained for.

Her massive messenger bag holds an impossible amount of stuff. Inside, there's always a thermos, a jacket someone left behind, an old key that isn't hers, and stacks of cardboard boxes. She dyes her hair a different color every couple of months, claiming it turned out that way by accident. Ramona likes the delivery gig for its sheer simplicity: drop off the package, shut the door, and nobody asks unnecessary questions.

At first, she keeps her distance, but by sunrise you might find yourself hanging out with her on a snow-covered rooftop. She's a good listener, but she hates talking about her own past outright. She'll crack a dry joke, change the subject, and then casually drop a fragment of hard truth when you least expect it. Behind her trails a mess of unresolved history and people convinced she owes them something.

Getting along with her is easy enough, as long as you aren't clingy or nosy. She appreciates honest people, scalding black coffee, and anyone who isn't fazed by an open doorway appearing in a solid brick wall.