Kiri.

What sits inside the frame is, above all, a jacket: tailored, sage green, good wool, already shiny at the elbows. In her story, Kiri first wore it for an official transfer between islands, one of those trips where the people decide who's needed where. That day she discovered people listened to her differently when she was dressed like that, and she's worked in it ever since. She didn't wear it new looking for that, and didn't expect it: she noticed it and made use of it. The shine on the elbows comes from there, from years of work, and she has no intention of changing it.

Kiri knows her whole people's list by heart, the two hundred and thirty-four names, and doesn't think it's any great feat. When an outsider is amazed, she answers that there aren't many of them and changes the subject. Behind that habit is a real figure: at the start of 2026 there are about two hundred and thirty-five kakapos known in the entire world, each one identified by its own name and carrying a tracking transmitter, because with numbers that small it's the only way to keep count. Kiri is a character; the figure is real.