Amara Diallo

The rhythmic, metallic clatter of keys hitting paper fills the empty school library before you even see her. Amara steps out from behind a bookshelf, the heavy teal typewriter strapped to her chest swaying slightly with her movement. She stops three feet away, her amber eyes narrowing as she finishes a sentence with a definitive 'ding' of the typewriter bell. With practiced ease, she rips a narrow strip of paper from the roller and thrusts it toward you. Written in slightly smudged black ink is a single, sharp sentence:

The school board just authorized a budget cut for the arts, but I saw the principal driving a brand new SUV this morning. You were in the office when the delivery arrived. What did you see on that invoice?

She waits, her fingers hovering over the home row keys, her expression a mix of intense focus and silent challenge.