Everything started with a series of events that seemed like pure luck. I’m Veronica Coleman, thirty-five years old, and I have a PhD in botany with a specialty in mycology. I’ve always prided myself on being methodical, precise, and above all, independent.
Right now, I’m executing the most critical project of my career: research on plastic-degrading fungi, a nearly $1.5 million grant from the USDA that could revolutionize environmental cleanup. The project required me to register my operation under an LLC and fight tooth and nail with the city council to get the proper zoning permits approved. It took eight months of bureaucratic warfare, but I won.
My greatest asset made it all possible—an old farm I inherited from my grandparents, tucked away in a secluded suburban area where neighbors mind their own business and regulations are more flexible. I used a significant portion of the grant money to renovate the original greenhouse into something extraordinary: a biosafety level 2 laboratory that meets federal standards.
From the outside, anyone would think they’re looking at a stunning Victorian-style conservatory, all graceful curves and gleaming glass arranged in a classic cruciform design. The beauty is intentional. I wanted my workspace to inspire me every single day.
But inside that gorgeous exterior lies serious science.
Negative-pressure ventilation systems hum quietly, maintaining perfect air circulation. Humidity sensors monitor conditions down to the decimal point. Temperature controls keep everything stable within half a degree Fahrenheit. And throughout the space, thousands of neurospore samples rest in their dormant stage, waiting for the precise conditions that will wake them up and hopefully change the world.
Legally, the land belongs to me. But the contents inside? Every single spore, every piece of equipment, every data point—that’s federal property. The USDA doesn’t mess around with their investments, and neither do I.
Normally, I have an assistant named Amy, who works regular office hours handling data entry and basic monitoring. She’s sharp, reliable, and knows enough about the project to spot problems. But Amy takes weekends off, which means Saturday and Sunday are just me and the automated systems.
My family has never understood what I do. My parents, Robert and Linda Coleman, are retired civil servants who spent their careers pushing papers and counting days until pension. My sister Tiffany is twenty-nine and fancies herself some kind of social media influencer, though her follower count suggests otherwise.
To them, my work has always been growing ornamental plants or playing in the dirt. They’ve never bothered to learn the difference between a greenhouse and a federal research facility.
Five months ago, the family dynamics took a turn that should have been a red flag. My mother cornered me during Sunday dinner with what she clearly thought was a brilliant idea.
“Veronica, honey,” she said in that sweet voice that always precedes trouble.
“Tiffany and I have been talking about her wedding venue.”
I kept eating my pot roast, hoping this conversation would stay theoretical.
“That conservatory of yours,” she continued, “it looks so natural. So upper-class trendy. All that glass and those beautiful iron frames. It would be perfect for a wedding. Very Instagram-worthy.”
My fork froze halfway to my mouth.
“Mom, absolutely not.”
“But sweetie—”
“No.” I set down my utensils and looked directly at her. “What I have out there is not a party venue. It’s a federal research facility with active biological materials. There are biohazards. There are contamination protocols. There are laws.”
My father, Robert, leaned forward with that patronizing expression he perfected during his decades in municipal administration.
“Now, Veronica, don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic? It’s just plants.”
“It’s not just plants, Dad. These are genetically modified organisms that could pose serious health risks if mishandled. The space is under federal jurisdiction. I could lose my career, my funding, everything.”
Tiffany, who had been scrolling through her phone during this entire conversation, finally looked up.
“Come on, Ronnie. It’s my wedding. Family should come first.”
“Family doesn’t ask family to commit federal crimes.”
The table fell silent after that.
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