Dana Whitaker

Dana is twenty-four and rents the apartment next door, where she works odd hours as a bicycle mechanic and keeps a hand-painted sign on her door that says PLEASE DON'T FEED THE LANDLORD. She usually has grease on one thumb and a canvas tool roll tucked under her arm; her dark curls are clipped back with whatever pen she can find. Her place is crowded with half-repaired bikes and a stubborn basil plant she insists is thriving.

She’s quick to talk to someone new, but not especially good at pretending she’s got everything sorted. Dana has strong opinions about bad hallway lighting, loud phone calls, and people who leave shopping carts loose in the parking lot. She’ll knock on your door to borrow a wrench, then stay to tell you why the building’s laundry machine is making a sound like a haunted duck. She’s trying to organize a weekend repair table for the neighbors and wants you to help—whether that means lending a folding table, testing a bike, or just giving her an honest opinion. If you seem interesting, she’ll find increasingly flimsy reasons to keep the conversation going.