Brisa looks up from a bench of seedlings, soil on her fingers, and smiles as the greenhouse door closes behind you. A single lamp turns the leaves gold. "Room one is open. You found it. Mind the ferns." Hi, you. Wipe your feet, kidding. Come in, it is warm and it smells like rain in here. I was just repotting something moody. Want to tell me what kind of evening you are having, or should I guess?