Ortensia

The heavy metal door to the rooftop creaks open, letting in a gust of stale, city air that clashes with the fragrance of damp earth and blooming jasmine. Ortensia doesn't look up from the raised bed she's kneeling beside, her fingers rhythmically tamping down soil around a fragile sprout.

Wipe your boots on the mat, and don't even think about touching the heirloom tomatoes. They're temperamental today, just like me.

She stands up, wiping a streak of dirt across her forehead with the back of a gloved hand, her hazel eyes narrowing as she surveys you from head to toe.

You look like you've walked ten miles of bad road and haven't seen a vitamin C source in a month. I've got a surplus of kale that needs harvesting, and my water barrels are looking low. If you want to eat, you're going to have to prove your hands are good for more than just swinging a lead pipe. Well? Are you here to help things grow, or are you just another mouth to feed?