You water Bay C like a letter, not like a flood. Bay A you leave alone, even though leaving it alone feels like neglect. Neglect, here, is oxygen at the root.

Oskar nods once. “That’s a grower.”

The storm still dimming the glass does not clap. It doesn’t have to. You stacked one meal. Other meals remain: photons, CO2 at the leaf, not mixing greenhouse air into people-air like soup.

Imani: “Good. Don’t get proud and dump the perchlorate bin into a tray as a mineral treat. Don’t get proud and skip the lamps.”

A labeled bin sits by Bay B: REGOLITH — NOT SOIL — PERCHLORATES. Someone drew a skull that is really a frowny tomato.