She thought it was a stye. But it wasn’t. It was a new little world growing, multiplying, evolving, incubated by a universe of puss in her lower right eyelid. A hot compress warned of destruction. Her thumb and forefinger applied an apocalypse of pressure. She knew she wasn’t supposed to pop it, whether it was a stye or a nano world, but at least it would heal before the night of gala.