The fluorescent lights flicker on as I sanitize the fume hood. Gloves on, I swing the incubator open. I stack the dishes and flasks next to the microscope. Laser on, focus adjusted, the sheets of cells reveal themselves. I slip the next flask under and focus, refocus. Nothing, there's nothing to be found.

I shake the flask. Cell debris swishes around. My cells are dead. Yes, my cells. Though they were never physically a part of me, a bond still existed; their successful propagation had resulted from my care and work, my science in the lab.

Unlike the experiments I read about or conduct in high school, there's no cheat sheet, no teacher or website to tell me what's supposed to happen to the cells in their different treatments, only postulates and results. And right now, my results are up in the air; my cells are dead. But why?

Science continues. Investigation reveals the culprit: a tiny ball of fungus has poisoned my cells and ruined my data. The overwhelming desire to break protocol, open the flask, and drown the murderous clump in methanol takes hold of me. I take one last look at the fungus and stop, vendetta scrapped, surprised. The toxic clump is extravagant, intricate like a snowflake, and shockingly beautiful. The motivation of all my work is revealed: to discover and protect the beauty of all life.