Gwen and Jaxon both whirl to face me. Priya looks over her shoulder with wide, terrified eyes, before returning her attention to the computer screen.
These are not the actions of grad students who have made a breakthrough.
This is the behavior of grad students who have fucked up.
God knows I’ve had enough shitty grad students to know the difference. I just didn’t expect it from these three, because they usually have their shit together.
“What the hell happened in here?” I bark.
Priya flinches, but doesn’t turn around again.
Jaxon blinks, looking like he might actually cry.
Jesus H. Christ.
Only Gwen has the courage to meet my gaze, but even her chin trembles a little before she starts talking in her usual rambling vomit of words.
“The soil samples from the Costa Rican rainforest finally came in. You know, the ones you requested from that conservation group. The one you’ve been waiting for? Apparently they finally made it through customs and they arrived last night.”
“Did they get left out over night?” I ask. “Because I’ve fucking talked to Clarissa about that.”
Gwen moves her glasses from her nose to her head and then back again. “No. Clarissa knew to watch for them. I was still on campus. So I came over to accept them from the delivery company. I unpacked the boxes and stored the samples in the refrigerator just like I was supposed to.”
That all sounds very . . . competent. And efficient.
“So why are you all acting like you’ve unleashed a plague?”
When no one answers, I cross to the microscope. They scatter out of my way.
I sit down on the high rolling stool to examine the sample on the current slide. And then flip through to the next screen. And the next. I increase the resolution and then decrease it. Trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.
I know what I should be seeing. Samples carefully collected from a dozen different sites from the rainforest, some of them healthy, some areas that had been deforested and are now over-farmed, some from places where the soil is considered essentially dead. Each sample should be unique. The healthy samples should contain hundreds of thousands of microscopic life forms.
That is not what I see.
I abandon the digital microscope, turn the chair around and scan the counter for the larger bagged samples Gwen would have used to make the slides. The bags contain more of the same.
I hold one up as I turn the chair to face my grad students.
“Is this …” I look at the bag, shaking my head, because I cannot believe what I’m about to say. “Is this Miracle Grow?”
“Well, you see,” Gwen begins. “We’ve been trying to isolate the unique properties of these samples and the best we can—”
“Is it Miracle Grow?” I ask again, more slowly.
Gwen and Jaxon exchange a panicked look, but it’s Priya who nods. “Yes, sir. I think so.”
I look back at the bag in my hand, considering it.
I don’t know how she did it. I don’t know where my real samples are. But I know who is responsible.
Holly.
I look at the bag in my hand and then hold it up to examine the label more carefully. The labels should all include the date, location, and time the sample was collected, as well as the name of the person who collected it, as well as other relevant information like the soil depth of nearby plants.
Except this label has one additional line, on which is written the word, “Your.”
I pull out each of the bags and catalogue all the extra words. Then I rearrange the bags until the words form the message, “Want your samples? Pete’s Flat Top Shop, 7:00 p.m., Friday.”
