Exhibit B

When I was nine, my mother brought home something remarkable. A young woman, I think a graduate student in my father’s lab, followed her into our bathroom. Soon the smell of formaldehyde wafted into the living room. The next day, my mother, wearing a denim button-down shirt with embroidered Looney Tunes characters over the breast pocket, visited my grade 3 class. During her presentation, she passed around a pickled rat brain that resembled a beige rubber walnut. A large glass vessel held the human brain that she had decanted and transferred into fresh preserving solution over our bathtub the night before.

My dad is a neuroscientist, and my mom is an expert in pediatric motor-speech disorders. When I was a child, they enrolled me in studies where friendly researchers asked me to arrange plastic blocks into shapes or to hold still as I disappeared into the whirring barrel of an fMRI...