Every Saturday, they climbed to the rooftop with a metal watering can, Vivaan’s red shovel, and a ruler for the bravest shoots. They poured water into cracked pots, searched for new leaves, and flapped at greedy pigeons. “Shoo!” laughed Vivek. “These tomatoes are not for you.”

In sunny weeks, the concrete glowed. In drippy gray weeks, the rails shone. Still, they went up, chatting about spelling tests, football goals, moon rockets, and silly burps as the plants, and their happy talk, grew taller.