You insist on still air because quiet feels like saving.

The ribbon hangs. The room average looks proud. The leaves go hungry at their coats. LEDs light a famine a millimeter thick.

Imani does not yell. “You can still switch them on. Power we have. Photons we made. Gas we paid for. The coat is the last centimeter, and you left it stale.”

GROVE: “Stomatal CO2 deficit persists.”

Pride is a boundary layer too.