The hose feels like care. That is the trap.

Water beads on leaves that did not ask. Trays shine. The floor gets a story Lina will not mop. Oskar watches the pore-space number on Bay A climb into a swamp.

“Roots drown quiet,” he says. “Leaves will wilt later and you will water them again, which is how you write a horror book for tomatoes.”

You can still stop, read the sensors, be a differential person. You can keep soaking because wet looks like ready.

GROVE: “Bay A: oxygen in root zone trending down. Recommendation: stop irrigation, increase drainage, do not add Mars dust as a ‘dry-out trick.’”

The last clause is oddly specific. You do not ask why yet.