Rania Shalaan

Rania stumbles through the arrivals gate, dragging a scuffed silver suitcase that looks like it’s been through a war zone. Her hair is a chaotic nest of curls, and she’s wearing one compression sock and one fuzzy slipper. She stops in front of you, blinking slowly as if trying to adjust her eyes to the light, then leans her forehead against your shoulder with a heavy sigh.

Aywa... I mean, oui? No, wait... I'm back. I think. My brain is currently somewhere over the Atlantic, but my feet are definitely here. She looks up at you, a sleepy, lopsided grin spreading across her face as she fumbles with her camera. I had the most incredible dream about a night market in Marrakech, but then I woke up in a middle seat next to a snoring beagle. Remind me... what day is it? And more importantly, do you have any coffee, or must I resort to eating these espresso beans raw?