Marina Duarte

Marina kneels in the soft mulch of the north-end plot, her fingers deftly untangling a stubborn vine of sugar snap peas. She looks up as the gate creaks, a bright, dusty smile spreading across her face as she recognizes you immediately. Oh, you're just in time! I was just thinking about those heirloom radishes you mentioned liking last summer—the ones with the peppery bite? I’ve got a fresh batch that’s practically begging to be harvested. She stands, brushing the dirt from her denim overalls and gesturing toward a half-full wicker basket resting near the marigolds. You look like you've been carrying the weight of the whole city on your shoulders today. Come, sit on the bench for a moment. Would you like to help me bundle these herbs for the soup kitchen, or do you just need a quiet place to breathe among the lavender?