“Maybe it’s on the other side.” I stretch my calves and then circle the building.

The rear of the Health Sciences building faces the woods. A dirt path disappears into the trees. The stench of dead leaves and mold tickles my nose.

Mattie sneezes. “Just a second. I need a tissue,” she says. She stops and digs in her backpack. “Aha! Operation D.A.D. to the rescue!” I roll my eyes. “What’s that?” she asks as she blows her nose, pointing behind a tall shrub dotted with pink flowers.

Instead of brick, the back corner of the building is two stories of glass. The panes are clouded with steam, little rivulets of water leaving snaking paths like escape routes. Mammoth leaves, yellow flowers, red branches press against the windows. A glass door is propped open with a big stone.

“It’s a greenhouse,” I say, heading for the door.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to go in there, Mercedes.”

Mattie is always so nervous.

“Why did they leave the door open, then?”

“We need to keep moving,” she says. But she follows me anyway.

Walking into the greenhouse is like entering a different country. I know we need to focus, but I can’t help myself. A thick green scent hangs in the air. The cement floor is damp with puddles. Black plastic pots as big as bathtubs hold huge trees, some familiar looking and some covered in strange fruit—yellow, green, orange. Some have leaves bigger than my head. One has branches that droop like it’s the saddest tree in the world. In the middle of the room are tables buried in more plants. Tall grassy ones, short flowering ones. One is a vine with black leaves. Each plant or tree has a little metal sign with labels. Cattleya trianae. Streptosolen jamesonii. Heliconia bihai. I reach out and touch a velvety leaf. Setaria palmifolia. Plumeria rubra. Mom would love it in here. She loves plants. Her babies. When her plumeria blooms, she tells me to smell them. “Really get in there, Mercedes,” Mom says. “Get your nose close and breathe it in.”

“Look at this one,” Mattie calls as I bend down to smell a rich red flower with spiky yellow leaves.

I join her at the other end of the long table. The plant has tall narrow leaves and strange yellow blobs. I suppose they’re flowers, but they look like cobs of yellow corn. Or snakeskin. Calathea crotalifera. A second label is in English: RATTLESNAKE PLANT.

“Yikes.” Maybe I shouldn’t touch anything in here. I wipe my hand on my jeans.

“What is this place?” Mattie asks, looking up, around. She’s mesmerized by the green and the thick air and the colors.

“A greenhouse. A conservatory. It must be for studying plants,” I say. “I could stay here forever.”