Imagine Sarah, nurse at St Vincents, on the Number 96 tram, Melbourne dusk bruising purple outside the windows. Twelve hours done. Her navy scrubs are faded and soft, worn to the shape of her, the way a soldier’s fatigues eventually become a second skin. She doesn’t look like someone the Herald Sun would write about. She looks like someone the Herald Sun will never notice. Her ANMF dues ping on…