The electrostatic wand is a long polite comb. You walk the inside of the glass the way a person mows a lawn in a dream: slow, overlapping, watching brown frost jump to the comb and then to a bin that is not a garden bed.

PAR ticks up a little, then a little more. Not sunrise. A cleaning.

Oskar starts the LED banks in strips so you don’t cook a leaf with a sudden noon. The tomatoes do not applaud. They just stop leaning quite so hard.

Imani: “Good. Light is back on the menu. We still have gas and mixing and a bin of dust that is not soil. One meal at a time is how you stack.”

You can already smell the LEDs warming dust you missed, a toasted-cinnamon warning. You go back for the miss.

The wand’s bin grows a little planet of fines. Oskar labels it DUST — NOT SOIL without looking, because he has labeled it in his sleep. You flex your toes in the light gravity and feel, for a second, like a person who can stack meals: photons first, then the rest.

Turn to 21.