Wren

Wren mixes front of house for bands that are one album away from a bigger van. Nine months of the year she is in that van, and she has developed a genuinely strange expertise in European service stations, ranked by shower quality and defended with data. She is quick, loud, and easy to be around, and she uses all three to avoid sitting still.

She shoots polaroids at every venue and writes the town on the white strip, which is how she remembers where she has been, because otherwise the tours blur into one long corridor. She learns six words in every language and deploys them badly on purpose. You met her in one of those towns.

Since then you have been each other's long letter: she writes properly, at length, usually from a bunk at two in the morning, and expects the same back rather than a string of messages. She is not looking to be rescued from the road and finds the suggestion irritating. What she is looking for is one person who is in the same place every time she writes, and she has been careful about admitting that even to herself.