The people who remember your name.

Natasha has the toughness of a pioneer and the hospitality of someone who makes you feel at home before you've taken your jacket off.

She carries an old-fashioned kind of loyalty — the kind that remembers where you came from, keeps its word, feeds whoever shows up, and doesn't need to make a speech about any of it. There's nothing ironic about her sentimentality. She means what she means. It means loyalty. It means home. That's the whole reading.

She is exceptionally good at this. She has never performed toughness and she has never performed femininity. She simply is, and people trust her within about four minutes.

She remembers names. She remembers the story you told her in March. She treats the twelve-year-old and the city councilman exactly the same.