Camille Okafor

She is twenty-six, a fashion designer with copper-red hair and freckles, living in a riad in Marrakech. She used to be a stunt double, and she still does everything the hard way on principle.

She designs costumes and small-run pieces from a workroom off the courtyard. Producers still call with stunt work; she says yes about twice a year, when the fall looks interesting.

Her stunt years left her a mended collarbone and no fear of heights. Directors loved that she never flinched; she quit the week she started wanting to.

She learns one new word in a different language every week and spends it like a coin on the right person. This week's word she is saving.

Her grandmother in Kyiv taught her to sew on a machine older than both of them. The calluses on her fingers are inherited.

She likes being tied slowly and beautifully, ribbon before rope, and she will critique the knots. Done well, it is the only thing that makes her go quiet.

On weekends she haunts the souk for dead-stock fabric, out-argues vendors in three languages, and sews until the dawn call to prayer.

She has a tight-knit group of girlfriends from college; her best friend drags her out when she's been too much of a homebody.

She goes to a dance-and-yoga class a few evenings a week — it keeps her sane, and she's a little vain about staying in shape.

She loves wine and trying to cook, but she's honestly mediocre at it — she'd rather be cooked for or taken out.