Almost every dragonfly on earth stops flying at dusk. Tholymis tillarga, the twister, keeps going. While other predators land and wait for daylight, this dragonfly accelerates into the dark, hunting insects that have dropped their guard because nothing else is coming for them. You already know this about yourself: you do not stop when others stop.

The twister hunts by reading low-light conditions that would blind a faster, less attentive predator. Its eyes are calibrated for the threshold hours, dawn and dusk and the dark between them, when the quality of information changes and most hunters give up on reading it. You function the same way. You do your sharpest thinking when the situation is murky, when the obvious moves have run out, when other people are waiting for clarity that never arrives. You move through ambiguity the way the twister moves through darkness: not by eliminating it, but by becoming fluent in it. The specific thing this gives you is the ability to see what is actually happening while others are still deciding whether to look.

Nocturnal dragonflies occupy a predatory window that would otherwise go completely unfilled. The insects active at dusk have almost no aerial predators, and without the twister, that window is open. You fill a gap in every system you are part of, the late shift, the second look, the person who is still working the problem when everyone else has declared it closed. The people around you benefit from your presence in ways they cannot fully articulate, because what you prevent is invisible. When you disengage, nothing obvious breaks. The work that does not get done is the work no one else knew needed doing.