Herman poured a bit more vinegar into the crudely constructed, paiper-mache cavern, and held his breath.

He waited a few seconds, questioning himself with each tick. Had he put enough in? Was the consistency of the dish soap right? How could he levy it all for maximum eruption?

He was being ridiculous. He’d measured and remeasured many times over. It would go off without a hitch, he just needed to have a little faith.

And patience. Lots of patience.

There was a gurgle, and another pop, and the lava began spilling out.

Only it was yellowish.

All his measuring and he’d forgotten the god damn food coloring.

Herman dropped his head into his hands, exhaustion and embarrassment hitting him in equal measure.

A light flicked on in the adjacent hallway, followed by the shuffle of slippers on carpet. It was a subtle sound, only heard when listened for.

“Are you still going at it, Captain Ahab? The rest of the crew has deserted you for hours.”

His wife, Charlotte, was not upset, but Herman could tell she had woken from sleep. It was softer than her already soft voice—dreamy and kind as they come.

“Yes, it’s just I can’t quite get the eruption right. And the consistency of it. And the last one-, “he laughed, hearing the crazed, tired crack in his voice, “the last one I forgot the food coloring. Yellow lava dear, can you imagine?”

“Oh, I can,” said his wife, not nearly as disturbed as he was, “now come to bed, babe. It’s a 4^th grade science project, and our little scientist has been in bed for hours.”

“But I am a scientist. A real one,” Herman said, exasperated, “I should be able to figure this damn thing out. I mean, what will it look like if the son of a scientist gets a B on his project.”

“It’ll look the same as when he hit a home run. You’ve never hit a home run in your life as far as I’m aware.”

“That was uncalled for,” Herman said in exaggerated anguish, not even taking his face out of his palms, “kicking a man while he’s down.”

Charlotte was upon him with the swiftness of a leopard to a cub, rubbing his shoulders.

“All I’m saying is just like his accomplishments aren’t all yours, neither are his failures.”

“Besides,” she added, “failure is a teaching tool. Isn’t that what they kept saying at parent-teacher night?”

“I don’t know,” he said, a little more upbeat, “I was too busy listening to the science project requirements.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said with a grin and a playful slap.

“I know,” he said, returning the smile, “just give me one more test run.”

She sighed and began to retreat to their bedroom.

“Fine,” she said, “please don’t be too long.”

He was already remeasuring vinegar for another go at it.

“Don’t forget that lava is red—not yellow!” she yelled from the bedroom.