A plain promise of care
Built for the person at the kitchen table.
Most of what we translate is read once, slowly, by someone who is frightened or tired or both: a parent weighing a trial for a child, a patient holding a new device that beeps in a way nobody warned them about. The page has to be steady in their hands. A dose cannot waver. A “may” cannot harden into a “will.”
So the studio is arranged around friction in the right places. The translator drafts and reads aloud. A certified linguist, a different person, goes through the draft against your source with a pencil. Then a third linguist, who has never seen your English, turns it back, and we lay the two side by side and listen for where they part.
We are small on purpose. When you call, the person who picks up has the file open, knows which linguist has it, and can tell you what day it will return.
