The word *Grow* did not leave Elian's mind. It echoed there, a resonant command that had the taste of sunlight and the feel of splitting rock. It was no longer a concept to be observed, but an action to be taken. The silent, passive vigil by the field was over.
The next morning, he did not go to the pump. This was the most profound rebellion yet. The pump was the heart of their survival, the altar of their suffering. To abandon it was to risk death, a concept that was slowly regaining its terrifying shape in their minds. The others watched him, their newfound expressions flickering with anxiety. Mara took a half-step toward the pump, her body twitching with the ghost of the old routine.
Elian ignored them. He walked to the edge of the barren field, to the place where the hard, lifeless earth met the small, struggling patch of green. He knelt. The word was a drumbeat in his skull. *Grow. Grow. GROW.*
