The laboratory sat in a dull stone building, at the end of a long, lonely hallway. The pungent smell of yeast and agar assaulted Julia's nose as she approached the open door. If not so keenly familiar, the heavy warm odor may have nauseated her. Entering the large room, she looked around at the messy workbenches crowded with glassware, and shelves lined with powdered substances in large tinted bottles. A low electric hum wove down the isles and soothed her ears. Julia didn't have to peek into the backroom to know the noise emanated from the motor of what she affectionately referred to as, 'the wibble wobble machine.' Its black rubber stoppers gripped the bottom of two-gallon beakers and slowly swirled their thick yellow contents. Instead, she walked towards her father's large desk covered in books, journals, and manuscripts as well as empty McDonald's coffee cups and a large tin filled with an impossible number of pens. He'd be there, the last one at work on a Friday night, a familiar fixture in this quirky foreign place she knew so well.

"Deddy, Mommy's waiting in the car."

Christian looked up at his ten-year-old daughter. 

From the angle she stood, his eyes looked enormous through the lenses of his glasses, but not disproportionate to his enormous bald head with a whisp of long hair combed over it in denial. 

Christian watched Julia look around his laboratory with curious eyes, his chest puffed up with pride at the thought of her wanting to follow in his footsteps. He looked back a the stack of Petri dishes in front of him wanting desperately to finish the experiment he had started. Mutant strains of Salmonella–another step closer to elucidating the synthesis of the lipid bilayer of gram negative bacteria. He should leave them in the fridge for the weekend and count the colonies on Monday. 

"I'm hungry," said his skinny little daughter, poking at the pile of pens on his desk.

He glanced at the clock. It was already 7:00 pm, already an hour past dinner. He'd completely lost track of time. His wife was a mighty patient woman, but if he had to be honest, his own stomach was grumbling too. Christian's eyes darted rapidly back and forth between his daughter and the Petri dishes a half a dozen more times before he finally taped the six flimsy round plastic containers together and palmed them in his right hand. He would keep them at home in the fridge. 

"Ok, let's go."