I’d been growing plants in recycled plastic milk cartons and empty glass jars since I was a kid. Mom said I had the greenest thumb she’d ever seen, even as a toddler. She found out exactly how green when she left me in the sunroom of my grandma’s house when I was three. She went to grab her purse, and when she came back, I was tangled in the vibrant green vines of a velvet-leaved philodendron—a plant that had been dead and withered when she’d stepped out.

From that point on, Mom and Mo gave me little tests. They’d put me near a dead plant, and it would turn green and grow new sprouts if I paid attention to it. When I was older, they gave me seeds that I would plant and bring to bloom in minutes. They didn’t know how or why I could do the things I did, but they accepted it, nurtured it, and let it grow, just like the plants—until I was about twelve.

Everything changed after that. I had a harder time keeping my power in check. Everywhere I went, if there was something green and growing, it was like an alarm went off, alerting it to my presence. The flora wanted my attention, and if I was being honest, I wanted to give it to them.

The bell on the door clanged as Mr. Hughes left the shop, and I went back to work on an arrangement that was scheduled for pickup in less than an hour. I clipped a few sprigs of baby’s breath and stuck them alongside bundles of fuchsia crape myrtles, St. John’s wort, and blush-colored roses in a tall vase. I ran my fingers over the roses and they plumped up.

Mom flipped on the Bluetooth speaker and Faith Evans’s voice rang out as she bobbed her head to the beat.

“Lookin’ good,” she said, eyeing the arrangement in front of me. “I love the colors.”

“Thanks. I’ve been working on it since yesterday. I should be done soon.”

She came over and put her arm around my shoulder. “Thank you for doing that for Mr. Hughes. It means a lot to him to have those flowers, but . . .” She looked down the hall toward the back door. “You have to be really careful.”

“I know,” I said, reading the worry in her eyes. “I was. I got all six from a single pistil.”

“Really?” Mom lowered her voice and leaned in close, even though we were the only two people in the shop. “That’s some kind of record, right?”

I nodded. She had always been fascinated with what I could do, but her curiosity was tempered with concern. I couldn’t blame her.

She looked me over. “How you feeling? Dizzy?”

I nodded. A shadow of unease crossed her face.

“Anything else you need me to do today?” I asked, avoiding her eyes.