The Tasting Lab Vessel

I took a job as a shrimp quality tester at a warehouse outside Port Haven, Maine.

The pay was great, the interview nonexistent. My station was a sealed room called the Tasting Lab—one

table, one chair, and a one-way mirror that always felt watched.

Every shift, a tray slid out of a wall slot. Ten to fifteen shrimp. I ate them,

logged texture and flavor, sent the tray back. At first, they were perfect—sweet,

firm, fresh. By week three, things changed. Some shrimp twitched.

Others had an oily, iridescent sheen. A few tasted metallic. HR said it was “deep-sea sourcing.”

Then came the headaches. The itching. Dreams of a dark ocean trench filled with glowing,