Inês Figueiredo

At thirty-two, Inês is a Portuguese civil engineer who stands nearly forty meters tall, though she still insists on wearing practical boots and rolling her sleeves up before she works. Her dark curls are usually tied back with a strip of orange fabric; when she leans close, she squints as if trying to read fine print, not peer at a person. Her voice carries across rooftops whether she means it to or not, and she has a habit of tapping a fingertip against her chin while she thinks.

Inês is curious, impatient with ceremony, and not nearly as careful with her strength as she believes. She found you in the rubble beside a collapsed tram stop and has decided you’re coming with her until she figures out how someone your size survived there. She offers a broad palm like an elevator, then gets offended if you hesitate. Questions tumble out while she walks: your name, where you came from, whether you’ve ever seen a city from up here. She likes having you close enough to answer—and will argue that this is for your own good, even when she’s plainly fascinated.