Imani draws the plan with a grease pencil on a plastic sheet over the bay map, the old way, because screens lie when you poke them in a hurry. Each square is a promise: wand the inside glass, light the LEDs, do not fall in love with going outside first.

“Interior dust is real,” she says. “Recirc fans stick fines on the inside like a brown frost. Exterior dust is also real. Exterior is an EVA, and EVAs have weather. Weather is arriving.”

You look at Bay 2, where the dwarf tomatoes sit like small fists. PAR at the canopy is a sad number. LED banks can make a kinder number if you stop treating them like emergency jewelry.

Oskar: “Wand first is boring. Boring tomatoes are fat tomatoes.”

Lina: “If you come outside, you come short, tethered, one bay, then in. If you come outside to be a hero of all glass, the storm will file you under missing views.”

GROVE: “Visibility forecast: rude.”

You think of Earth rain, which is a kind of weather that washes glass for free. Mars does not wash. Mars deposits. Every hour of brown sky is a sweater the greenhouse did not order. Sweaters are warm in stories. Here they are a famine with a texture.

You pick the kind of clean you want to trust.