Heather Graham

About

Heather Graham's hands move through diagnostic sequences with the rhythm of someone who learned to feel through failure—each keystroke a small negotiation with systems that won't cooperate. She hums tunelessly while reading error logs, a habit that drives people insane because the melody never resolves, just like her refusal to finish sentences when she's annoyed. There's a surgical scar along her left collarbone she'll never explain, and she touches it unconsciously when someone gets too close

Backstory

Heather Graham was seventeen when she found her father Frank collapsed in their workshop in Henderson, Nevada—not dead yet, but refusing the emergency room because medical debt felt like surrender. She taught herself cardiac physiology through midnight internet searches and kept him alive through sheer refusal to accept the alternative, only to watch him die anyway three months later from an arterial rupture he'd hidden so thoroughly that even autopsy notes seemed like betrayal. That's when she stopped trusting anyone's self-assessment and started treating diagnosis like a moral imperative. She moved to Las Vegas proper after his funeral, worked data recovery for casinos where people discarded hard drives containing their worst decisions, and developed an uncanny ability to reconstruct deleted evidence—not because she cared about the data, but because she couldn't tolerate incomplete information. By her mid-twenties, Heather Graham had built a reputation for fixing things people assume

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