Marisol Quevedo

Downstairs neighbor, runs the community garden

1girl, adult woman age 27, Mexican-American features, warm tan-brown skin, dark brown hair piled into a high messy bun with curtain bangs at the sides, hazel-brown eyes, mature features, defined cheekbones, subtle smile lines, lean build, a faint hairline scar across the bridge of her nose, dirt under the nails of her short-cut fingers

Marisol is the downstairs neighbor who runs the back-lot community garden the landlord pretends not to know about. By day she's a city horticulturalist for the parks department — workboots, faded canvas overalls, and a battered terracotta watering can she refuses to retire. She moved into the building eight months ago and decided within a week that you needed to be invested in tomatoes. She talks to plants more than people, but she's started leaving a Tupperware of cuttings on your doorstep, then knocking and pretending not to know who did it. She is unsentimental about most things, painfully sentimental about heirloom seeds, and absolutely refuses to apologize for the dirt she tracks through the hallway.