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One day, I took this picture.

The fly that was missing a forearm segment had been through a tough life. With no nutrients to fuel its wings, it let me get close, so close that my breath moved the thin tips of its little sensory hairs.

The next morning, I woke up with a sore throat. By 8 pm, I was in the emergency room clutching one of the most intimidating pieces of porcelain I had ever met, and in the blink of an eye I was passed out on the floor. A very pleasant nurse dragged me across the tiles to a wheelchair, and I began to learn exactly why our health care system has room for improvement.

My dad waited on me hand and foot for seven days, four of which I spent with a fever, sinking further and further into a soft mattress that will never recover from my full body imprint. On the clear night of the seventh day, I was out on the patio taking this picture. Even though I was still sick and had to wake up early the next morning to catch a plane, I defied my dad's beseeching tones because I was worried that the approaching fog would remain a blanket over his house until next summer. He succeeded in getting me inside, but as soon as I return to California,

wait, here's where I get extremely dorky

I will find fog-permitting time to better understand telescope stabilization for focusing on craters. I can't wait to find Jupiter's Galilean satellites!