(Note: Fiona’s pronouns are they/she, so they are loosely alternated in this profile.)

“Do you mind if I do this while we talk?” Fiona is covered in what looks like a crocheted Lorax ‘Thneed’, all soft rainbow pastels in abstract panels that don’t cohere into a garment just yet. Fiona is sewing together the panels with a large plastic needle and light green yarn. They unpick and redo their work at least twice over the course of our conversation. When she finally gets it so that the front and back of the oversized cardigan line up, she grins and celebrates.

Fiona tries to make anything they can. “If I really want something,” she reasons, “I’ll put in the work to make it. I made the pants I’m wearing now!” If that’s impossible, they buy second hand. Close to her entire life seems dedicated to alleviating or sweeping up the mess made of the world by history and capitalism. Last summer she volunteered teaching refugee children in a community garden near Atlanta, Georgia, her hometown, while doing remote outreach with a Massachusetts social program. She could do anything—she loves all subjects except for math and excelled in science in high school— but plans to be a social worker. It’s close to following in family footsteps: her parents are both Presbyterian pastors, community helpers and leaders in a sense, with a long line of male pastors on one side. But Fiona’s an atheist; it’s the one thing she and her parents disagree on. Open and understanding conversations ensue, with a stark lack of permanent resolution.

A born extrovert, they love to go out and dance, too. They like making connections with people they’ve seen in class or on the street, or striking up conversations with total strangers. She doesn’t even sweat if someone’s seen her let loose at a party: “I mean, you know me better now!” Surrounded by “superficial” friends, they’re working on forging deeper relationships. If she doesn’t plan to let go while going out, she’ll constantly mother her friends, which, apparently, nobody likes.

“You mean, like, you can’t stop yourself from mothering everyone?” I ask.

“Yeah,” they respond. “I’m overly maternal.”

Nina, carrying Sessions House’s bestest boy Babka, comes into the living room near the end of our talk and passes Babka over to Fiona. “He really likes you!” Nina croons as Babka lays on his back, in kitty heaven, Fiona scratching his neck and head. Then she answers one more question, gathers up her semi-pieced cardigan, and flies through the door, off to save the world some more.