Science
The Teacher in Room 1214
It was 45 seconds too late, but the teacher had a plan.
A gunman had just barraged her classroom with an AR-15, killing two students and injuring four others before turning to a classroom across the hall. The bullet-riddled walls were crumbling. Ceiling tiles were falling. If the shooter came back to kill more of her students, the teacher decided, she would stand up and shout, “We love you.”
The teacher was Ivy Schamis, whose husband would be waiting at home with a Valentine’s Day dinner; whose son was planning a wedding she couldn’t imagine missing; whose curriculum for this class — History of the Holocaust — had just moments earlier stirred a discussion about hate on campuses.
We love you. These would surely be her final words, Ms. Schamis thought. She knew her plan was futile — irrational, even. But with no stop-the-bleed kit, no shield, no help, words were all she had to show the children that an adult had put up a fight.
The moment never came. The gunman doubled back to the class across the hall, but not to Room 1214. At the command of a SWAT team, Ms. Schamis climbed over bodies and ran with her surviving students down the blood-smeared hallway, out the doors, and into the blinding light.
What waited for her there, in the days and months and years ahead, would be a whole new role in the lives of the 30 students who had survived. For them, she would be what she couldn’t be for the two who died: a lifeline.
She felt she owed them that. She had been the only adult in the room.
Attending to Her Students
The morning after the 2018 massacre at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla., Ms. Schamis rose before dawn and began cleaning her bloodstained suede boots. Seventeen people had been killed, including Nick Dworet and Helena Ramsay, who had been in her class. Some of the surviving students had abandoned their blood- and glass-caked shoes on the school pavement, but Ms. Schamis had the strange feeling she ought to take hers home and wipe them down, over and over, until they came clean.
She left the boots out by the closet to dry and then phoned the moving company that was set to relocate her family to a new neighborhood in a few weeks. She no longer had time to pack boxes, she explained to the movers. She needed to attend to her students.
Within a few hours, Ms. Schamis was corresponding with her students by text. Today, she adamantly denies that she started the Room 1214 text thread, but everyone else seems to remember it that way. She used it to organize car pools to wakes and funerals, to check in on the wounded and to plan a meet-up at Cold Stone Creamery, just so everyone could be together.
When the school reopened two weeks later, Ms. Schamis was there, shuffling between campus buildings with a cart of teaching supplies. The school’s psychological support offerings for students included coloring books and Play-Doh. She found them useless. She arranged to instead have a service dog, Luigi, a golden retriever, join her classes for the rest of the year.
When Luigi arrived, tail wagging madly, students from throughout the school came to play with him — including some who had otherwise refused to return to campus. The following fall, Ms. Schamis arranged to have everyone from Room 1214 placed in her study hall for support.
Ms. Schamis had known some of the students for only six weeks before the shooting, but she seemed to have a preternatural sense of what each of them needed. Rebecca Bogart, who had been a senior, felt so lost after what she had witnessed that Ms. Schamis encouraged her to apply for a scholarship to go abroad to Ecuador. The physical distance finally gave her mental space from the event.
Ally Allen, who had watched the killer approach through a glass door panel, kept waking in the night with tears pouring down her face. When Ms. Schamis dropped a picture of a German shepherd puppy in the Room 1214 group chat — a future service dog, in need of a home — Ally felt deep down the dog was meant to be hers. She received Dakota the morning after the one-year anniversary of the shooting: a new beginning.
And Kelly Plaur, who had called 911 four times during the shooting, was at a music festival when the crowd began running from what sounded like gunshots. This time, it was Ms. Schamis she called. Keep calm, the teacher coached. Keep me on the phone, and keep running.
Students called and texted her with their grief, their panic attacks, their drug use, their suicidal thoughts. What their own parents could not fully understand — the worst moment of their lives — Ms. Schamis could.
One day, she took some of the students to meet with a survivor of the 1999 Columbine High School shooting in Colorado. His experience of being shot and watching a friend die was remarkably similar to theirs, and Ms. Schamis hoped that his journey toward healing would assure them that together, they could persevere.
But weeks later, Ms. Schamis’s phone began buzzing incessantly. It was the Room 1214 text thread. The Columbine survivor had died of an overdose.
Leaving Parkland
Ms. Schamis committed herself to staying at Marjory Stoneman Douglas until every surviving student from Room 1214 graduated in the spring of 2019. It was not easy. On her commute each morning, she had the same troubling premonition: her car plummeting off the expressway overpass. Finally, her husband, Jeff, suggested a daily ritual. When she approached the bridge, she was to call him to discuss something grounding and ordinary, like what they would have for dinner.
At the 2019 graduation ceremony, Ms. Schamis wept: Helena should have received a diploma. Ms. Schamis found Helena’s brother and hugged him, but Helena’s mother stood back. Ms. Schamis wondered what the woman felt seeing the teacher who had been with her daughter.
That fall, she took the semester off and then moved to Washington, D.C., forgoing her full pension in search of peace.
Washington was where Ms. Schamis truly began to mourn. She joined a two-year waiting list for therapy. She reached out to Ally Allen, whom she had referred to a breeder for a service dog, realizing for the first time she needed one of her own.
But two Parkland survivor charities she approached for financial aid to train a dog said they could not help her. As a teacher, she wasn’t entirely surprised: She didn’t recall a school administrator ever once checking in on her. She had never heard any school official admit that she had not received active shooter training, or that her classroom had no stop-the-bleed kit. And she had never been able to reclaim mementos of almost 20 years of teaching that remained inside Room 1214.
Ms. Schamis, who has a master’s degree in education and specialized in Holocaust studies, had spent almost her entire career at Marjory Stoneman Douglas. She had loved teaching social studies in part because it allowed her to watch students see themselves anew: As they made sense of current events in the context of history, she witnessed their opinions changing and their prejudices being renounced.
There was nothing more meaningful to her. But she could not return to another classroom.
So she took a job as an office manager at a small private school, accepting a major pay cut to avoid being in a classroom where she would again be responsible for students’ safety.
When she started, she discovered the office manager station was in the front foyer of the building — in a way, the first line of defense.
‘Always Available’
The students, too, scattered around the country, but the Room 1214 text thread bound them together. Over time, there were updates: Ally Allen, inspired by Ms. Schamis, was preparing to become a teacher. Hannah Carbocci was pursing a career in criminal justice and writing her thesis on warning signs in school shooters. Catie Krakow was getting a degree in mental health counseling and shared tips on how the others could care for themselves as another anniversary approached.
I hope everyone is doing as well as they could be, wrote Elena Blanco, who had been assigned to the seat behind Nick.
You guys are forever family, replied Matt Walker, whose desk had been next to Helena’s.
As long as I am breathing, Ms. Schamis told them, I will always be available for you.
A year later, soon after the Uvalde, Texas, shooting, Ms. Schamis woke up to a message on the thread that had landed during the night: Uvalde was one too many, a student wrote; he couldn’t take his anguish anymore.
Ms. Schamis had taken a suicide prevention course the summer after the massacre. She knew the steps. She called the former student, asking if he had a specific plan to end his life. He did. She kept him engaged with questions — what was something he was looking forward to? — while she sought emergency help for him from five states away.
She spent the next five hours in a maze of dead ends. She tried the suicide hotline, but they could not help her, since she was not the person in distress. She did a 40-minute intake call with a Florida behavioral health center, only to learn they did not serve his region. She connected with a mental health hospital, but it turned out to be private. By now, she was weeping.
Eventually she reached the instructor of her suicide prevention class from all those years ago, who told her to call the West Palm Beach Police Department and explain that the distressed young man was a survivor of Parkland’s school shooting.
The boy ultimately received emergency care and survived. But not before the dispatcher who answered Ms. Schamis’s call admitted that with all the school shootings, she could not specifically recall what happened in Parkland.
‘That’s My Girl.’
Four years after the shooting, a process server arrived at Ms. Schamis’s home with a subpoena calling on her to testify at the killer’s sentencing trial. Ms. Schamis hid.
The text thread began to buzz with messages from former students who would also be required to appear. Ms. Schamis reverted to her usual role. I’m with you as you testify, she wrote.
Daniela Menescal, who had gone on to study psychology in Boston and still had shrapnel embedded in her leg and back, was distressed about going alone.
I’ll ask if I can be with you, Ms. Schamis told Daniela.
As the sun rose on a Wednesday morning, she texted the group that it was her turn. Dylan Kraemer, who had already taken the stand, replied fast.
You got this! If you look straight when u testify, he wrote, you can’t see the shooter.
On the witness stand, Ms. Schamis spoke with the tone of a teacher in front of a class, nodding for emphasis and gesturing around the room. Her gold necklace glimmered under the lights as she described the layout of Room 1214, the lesson she had been teaching, the first deafening blasts.
Her eyes trailed over to the defense table. There he was, the man who had stolen Nick’s chance to swim at the Olympics; who had robbed Helena of her plans to attend college in England.
The killer kept his head down. The prosecutor, Mike Satz, brought over a photograph, Exhibit 3S, and asked Ms. Schamis to name the subject.
“That’s my girl,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth, her voice cracking. “Helena. Helena Ramsay.”
Then he brought over another, Exhibit 3R.
“And that’s Nicholas Dworet,” she said. “Handsome boy.”
Parents in the courtroom shifted in their seats. Others shook their heads. Ms. Schamis looked up to the ceiling, blinking the tears from her eyes, patting her cheeks with a tissue and adjusting her glasses back on her nose where they had been.
Hannah Carbocci — watching the trial live from home — knew her teacher wouldn’t see the group chat until later, but she sent an encouraging message anyway: Mrs Schamis you’re a rockstar, she wrote.
There were no further questions, the lawyer in the courtroom said.
Ms. Schamis climbed down from the stand. That afternoon, she typed a response in the thread: Love you so.
A Demolition
As the sixth anniversary of the shooting approached last year, Lexi Gendron was struggling. She had tried to go to college, but like many of the others, found herself too preoccupied with classroom seating arrangements to focus. She couldn’t have her back to the door, but facing it meant watching for a killer.
After one class, she dropped out, instead working at a casino and a winery before moving to Texas. Now, she was about to start nursing school in hopes of a career in pediatrics — which meant returning to a classroom once again.
Just spilling my heart out, she wrote on the thread one night. Lexi had thrown away all her #MSDStrong memorabilia in search of a fresh start in Texas — only to realize that those tangible objects had been her puzzle pieces to a day that had never fully sunk in.
I’m so upset with myself for letting that stuff go, she wrote. I can’t believe I did that.
Ms. Schamis was the first to reply, offering to send T-shirts, bracelets, buttons and pins. Let me know whatever will make you feel better, she wrote.
She understood the pull of Parkland. When the school’s 1200 building was set to be demolished, Ms. Schamis had reached out to the school board, desperate to return to her classroom one more time. The jury, bereaved parents, journalists, and even Vice President Kamala Harris were granted permission to enter the building, but Ms. Schamis was not. Instead, prosecutors sent a package to her home in Washington: a five-year-old box of stale Valentine’s Day chocolates from her desk in Room 1214.
On the morning the demolition was set to begin, Ms. Schamis heard a radio segment as she drove to her new school in Washington. Bereaved families in Parkland were cathartically hammering off bits of the school building before the team came in to clear it away.
Ms. Schamis, shaking, called Jeff. They discussed the weather.
Her last mental image of her own classroom comes from a press pool report in which strangers described the artifacts left inside her fourth-period Holocaust class: a 2017-18 school year planner; a whiteboard bearing Ms. Schamis’s learning objective, “to be aware of the world and its surroundings”; bullet strike marks across the desks; and the dried blood of Nick and Helena coating a book titled “Tell Them We Remember.”
‘The only adult in there.’
Last summer, Ms. Schamis sat on the patio of a Mexican restaurant in Washington, recounting that day in 2018. Her German shepherd, Sayde, sprawled beneath her chair. All these years later, she still seemed uneasy. “That’s what keeps me up at night, thinking I was the only adult in there,” she said.
Jeff sat across from her. He reminded her of the bonds she had forged with her students: the pancake breakfasts at their place; the letters of recommendation for graduate schools; the tattoos that several had gotten — Room 1214 — including one who had it drawn in Ms. Schamis’s handwriting.
“But I didn’t save them — I didn’t save them,” she said. Her words hung in the air, jarring against the faint mariachi music coming through the patio speakers.
Jeff leaned forward and said with a seasoned assurance, “How could anybody save somebody from an AR-15?”
Science
Boyle Heights blaze choked L.A. with astronomical soot pollution
The air near the Lineage refrigerated warehouse fire in Boyle Heights carried astronomically high levels of smoke and soot, surpassing some of the worst air pollution during the Los Angeles County fires in January 2025, according to preliminary data from air officials.
The fire spewed thick black smoke for days. From downtown Los Angeles to the San Gabriel Valley, tens of thousands were enveloped in unhealthful levels of smoke, even as some local officials told residents that the air posed no danger.
As the days wore on, worst off were communities nearest the blaze. On June 19, three days after the facility ignited, a temporary air quality monitoring station at Eastman Elementary in unincorporated East Los Angeles measured an extremely hazardous 755 micrograms per cubic meter of fine particles for more than an hour, according to the South Coast Air Quality Management District.
For comparison, a Caltech air monitor in Pasadena recorded about 650 micrograms per cubic meter during the Eaton fire.
These high levels of fine particles, known as PM 2.5, probably resulted in the surge of residents into local emergency rooms during the fire, according to local health officials. But even now with the smoke gone, people still have not been told what chemicals they were breathing in during the weeklong ordeal.
Michael Jerrett, an environmental health professor at the UCLA Fielding School of Public Health, said his concern is the composition of materials emitted when the building burned.
“These contain many particularly toxic components,” Jerrett said, “and we know little about how these mixtures affect health.”
There is no completely safe level of fine particulate pollution, he noted, meaning higher concentrations are always worse.
During the 2025 L.A. County fires, local air officials announced that several monitors downwind had detected elevated levels of brain-damaging lead and cancer-causing arsenic from toxic paint and construction materials used in older homes.
The Lineage warehouse, built in 2018, is likely to contain different materials of concern. Thick insulation foam required for a massive refrigeration operation, solar panels and refrigerants were burned, leaving many residents on edge.
Even though three public agencies conducted air monitoring, the picture is still murky.
“[Public officials] are speaking with a lot of confidence but not a lot of information,” said mark! Lopez, a community organizer with East Yard Communities for Environmental Justice. “We’ve gotten in the room with folks to discuss where the gaps lie and where assumptions are being made. And I think they are realizing these agencies supposed to protect our air and our health aren’t as reliable as they thought they were.”
In response to the Boyle Heights fire, the South Coast air district deployed a mobile monitoring vehicle to screen for toxic substances in the community near the fire, according to Nahal Mogharabi, a spokesperson for the air district. It found increased levels of bromine, a chemical commonly found in fire retardant, and chlorine, often released from burning plastic. Both were below short-term health-based exposure thresholds.
Toxic metals, including lead and arsenic, were not elevated, according to air district data.
“That was the reassuring piece, that they were not picking up any of the metals,” said Dr. Nichole Quick, chief medical advisor for the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health. “But … that smoke is unhealthy. “You don’t want to be breathing it, regardless.”
The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency set up air monitors around the perimeter of the facility to test for toxic air contaminants, has the results and has not made them public. Julia Giarmoleo, an EPA spokesperson, said the monitors did not detect elevated metals, but would not provide a copy of the data without a federal records request.
The Los Angeles Fire Department’s hazardous material team also tested for ammonia, which is used in refrigeration, and hydrogen fluoride, a toxic chemical that could be released by burning lithium-ion batteries and solar panels.
Fire officials previously said they measured low levels of hydrogen fluoride on the second day of the fire. But the department would not answer questions about its air monitoring. It also told a reporter to submit a public records request.
It remains unclear whether any agency has tested for hydrogen cyanide or isocyanates, highly toxic gases that could be released from burning chemical-laden insulating foam inside the building.
“The real issue is what monitoring has not been done to protect the fence-line community from the air toxics,” said Jane Williams, executive director of California Communities Against Toxics.
Without the EPA or LAFD data, what is known of the smoke’s toxicity rests on the air district’s mobile monitoring.
Jerrett, the UCLA researcher, said that is not ideal for understanding the kind of plume released by the Boyle Heights fire, which rapidly changed direction with the wind.
“This can in some instances lead to levels that look low, but they are resulting from a mismatch between the location of the vehicle and the plume,” he said.
The Boyle Heights blaze, similar to the Eaton and Palisades fires, has revealed the region’s air monitoring can’t always tell people what they’ve been exposed to in a disaster.
“We do need a better monitoring system in place,” he said.
Local officials are now shifting their focus to the rancid odors from millions of pounds of rotting food in the ruined wing of the warehouse. Decomposing food can release hydrogen sulfide, a toxic gas synonymous with landfills and garbage. Lineage hired contractors who are measuring this noxious gas and other pollution. Their data indicate they have not detected hydrogen sulfide.
As Lineage workers haul the rotting food to local landfills, they are using deodorizing mist and have discussed using shrink wrapping to suppress the stench and minimize issues for nearby homes.
At this point, the odors are believed to be an inconvenience rather than a public health threat, according to Quick, the county medical advisor. She said running air purifiers may help to reduce odors indoors.
“It’s very important for folks to understand that the odors themselves do not indicate any dangerous levels of toxins, mold, bacteria, and so forth,” Quick said. “But the odors are a public nuisance.”
The air district is still encouraging residents to report odors to its online complaint system or by calling (800) 288-7664.
Science
After Trump axed federal employees running climate site, thousands crowdfund its comeback
Federal employees who were axed during waves of cuts by the Trump administration have fought back against the dismantling of a key climate science website, Climate.gov, and put up a new site, Climate.us, that can now do everything the original did.
The site, with millions of users each year, was known for colorful charts that anyone could freely download and that simplified giant sets of data, such as temperature readings. Now it refers to another page and is no longer being updated.
Daniel Swain, a UC Agriculture & Natural Resources climate scientist, called the resources available at Climate.gov “the most efficacious dollars spent by NOAA on public-facing science, possibly ever.” He has used graphics from the former website on his popular weather blog.
“I am a terrible artist or illustrator. It would be very bad if I had to create those on my own.” Swain said. The website didn’t just make graphics that were beautiful, he said, they were accurate and reliable because of the network of researchers who fact-checked them.
Rebecca Lindsey was the editorial lead and program manager for Climate.gov until February 2025, when her position at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration was eliminated by the Elon Musk-led Department of Government Efficiency, or DOGE. She explained that the online resource was “a bridge between scientists, data and the public.”
Lindsey and her team have now rebuilt the bridge piece by piece, if just a bit further downstream.
The team is made of the same editorial and technical staff that ran Climate.gov. It’s paid for through a crowdfunding campaign and one large, anonymous donation.
The group has raised some $380,000, about $100,000 of which came in the last week. They also have recruited 80 scientists who are willing to volunteer as subject matter experts and fact checkers. It’s enough to keep the work going through February while they seek more long-term funding.
The first iteration of Climate.us went online in 2025 to keep the last 15 years of work from the government website available. The newest version restores the full function of the previous website.
For Californians, the timing could be important.
“We’re headed for a very strong El Niño event that will have significant implications for Southern California,” Swain said. “Climate.gov and the scientists behind it did a great job walking people through the last one, and I would expect that’s the case this time as well.”
Climate.gov excelled at tapping into a pool of academic experts to explain what was happening in nearly real time. This allowed the public to see how events such as wildfire, drought or large weather patterns such as El Niño were shaping their lives when they needed the information most. Research from academic institutions, by contrast, can take years to publish results from major natural disasters.
Swain emphasized that cuts to resources that give context to hard-to-interpret data is not just a loss for the research community.
“It’s getting more and more difficult for the American public to access the science and the scientists that their tax dollars have supported for over half a century,” he said.
With the revival of Climate.us, Swain said he plans to directly use the site and its graphics to keep Californians connected to the world of climate science.
Science
This Cell Feeds, Grows and Reproduces. And It’s Manmade.
Scientists have long dreamed of discovering the alchemy by which chemicals can be turned into life. On Wednesday, a team at the University of Minnesota announced that it had taken a major step toward that vision.
Blending together dozens of ingredients, the researchers have synthesized simple cells that feed, grow, reproduce and compete with one another for food. If these cells are not yet fully alive, they have most of the hallmarks of life.
“Life is not binary,” said Kate Adamala, a synthetic biologist who led the research. “That’s why I’m hesitant to call this ‘alive.’ There’s no clear line, as much as we would love it to be.”
Until now, scientists had never mastered the recipe for a cell that can perform so many functions, said John Glass, a synthetic biologist at the J. Craig Venter Institute in La Jolla, Calif., who was not involved in the study.
“It is dazzling that she has put these things all together,” he said.
Drew Endy, a synthetic biologist at Stanford University, said, “It’s a cell that was built, not born. It’s constructed, but it does what cells do.”
Dr. Adamala named her creation SpudCell, after its potato-like appearance. Rather than patent it, she and Dr. Endy are organizing a community of scientists to focus on making SpudCells more fully alive and adapting them to new kinds of experiments.
They and their colleagues have founded a nonprofit research organization that Dr. Endy estimates will spend hundreds of millions of dollars on the effort in the next decade. Hundreds of scientists are expected to join.
“We’re going to remember this moment,” said Roseanna Zia, a computational biologist at the University of Missouri who was not involved in the project.
Dr. Adamala and her colleagues posted a 190-page account of their work online. The research is under review for publication in a scientific journal.
Scientists hope synthetic cells can tell them things about life that natural cells cannot, including such basic questions as how many genes are necessary for a minimal form of life.
But synthetic cells also might someday be engineered to do things that natural cells can’t, like making new kinds of medicine or drawing large amounts of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. In theory, engineered SpudCells might produce a vast range of proteins that natural cells cannot be coaxed to make, or even toxic chemicals like rocket fuel.
Now, “we can think about doing chemistry that we’re barely getting our heads around,” Dr. Glass said.
The trouble with life as we know it: mysterious, messy complexity. Our own DNA contains tens of thousands of genes, as well as millions of molecular switches turning those genes on and off. Scientists barely have a clue as to what many of those pieces of DNA are doing. Often a gene that they think they understand turns out to be performing other jobs than scientists expected.
One way to sidestep this intricacy is to simplify.
In the 1990s, a team led by the late biologist Craig Venter began studying a microbe that had fewer than 1,000 genes. The team, now led by Dr. Glass, went on to strip the microbe’s genome down to 525 essential genes.
In a 2016 paper, the team reported it didn’t know what a third of those genes were doing. Dr. Glass and his colleagues have spent the last decade trying to solve the puzzle, and they still can’t say what 56 of them do.
“There are still significant tasks that every cell has to do that we don’t know,” Dr. Glass said.
Other researchers tackled the problem from the opposite direction. Instead of working from the top down, they moved from the bottom up, seeking to combine lifeless molecules to produce a living cell.
Since the 1990s, several labs have bitten off small pieces of this problem. Some of them have perfected recipes to make hollow bubbles from oily molecules. Others have found ways to encapsulate simple genetic molecules inside those bubbles.
But scientists struggled to put these pieces together into more complex systems, let alone something that could be called a cell.
In recent years, Dr. Adamala took on one of the fundamental challenges: cell division. A natural cell divides with the help of proteins that lock together into a ring anchored to its inner wall. The ring winds itself tighter, pinching the cell in two.
Other proteins act like winches, moving DNA and other molecules into the forming cells, so that they have the ingredients necessary to keep living.
At first, Dr. Adamala tried building a simpler version of the natural system. But then she decided not to mimic real cells at all.
Biophysicists had found that if they stuck proteins on a membrane, they created pressure that made the membrane bend. Dr. Adamala and her team created bubbles that could snag proteins floating around them. When a bubble collected enough proteins, its surface began bending inward until it popped in two.
While the idea was simple, getting it to work in the lab required a year of experiments. “But once it works, it works,” Dr. Adamala said.
That success prompted the team to try to build a synthetic cell in its entirety.
The first step was to create a broth of the molecules necessary for a cell to operate. The recipe ultimately included about a hundred kinds of proteins and simple molecules required for crucial chemical reactions, such as making new proteins from genes.
The researchers also provided their synthetic cell with genes borrowed from a virus and the ubiquitous microbe Escherichia coli. They picked 36 genes for basic jobs like copying DNA.
After mixing these ingredients together into a soup, the scientists added the building blocks of membranes. They spontaneously joined together into bubbles, each engulfing some of the soup.
Many of these bubbles ended up encasing the right mix of genes, proteins and other molecules, and they started carrying out the chemical reactions seen in real cells.
As the new cells floated in flasks, Dr. Adamala and her colleagues added food. The cells slurped up small molecules through channels on their surfaces.
The scientists also put in small bubbles loaded with proteins and other molecules that were too big to fit through the channels. By bumping and fusing into one of these bubbles, the cell could feed on the treats inside.
As the cells fed, they grew. And in just a few hours, they were big enough to divide.
The scientists added a special protein to the flasks, which latched onto the surface of the cells and forced them to bend inward. Once the cells split in two, the pair of new cells kept growing.
Now the SpudCells grew, fed and reproduced. As it turned out, the cells even had a rudimentary ability to evolve.
Dr. Adamala and her colleagues created a mutant version that bound more tightly to the snack-filled bubbles floating around it. To test it, they created a 50-50 mixture of original and mutant SpudCells.
The cells competed for five generations for food. Eventually the mutants outnumbered the originals, suggesting that they were outcompeting the originals for food.
“That’s the shake-the-ground accomplishment here,” said Dr. Zia. Scientists will be able to put various synthetic cells in competition with one another and rapidly develop more sophisticated ones.
For all this evidence of life, SpudCell still has some major shortcomings. For starters, it can’t make the molecular factory that produces new proteins, called a ribosome. The cells can carry all the genes they need to build ribosomes, but for some reason the parts don’t come together.
For now, Dr. Adamala and her colleagues have to feed ready-made ribosomes to SpudCells. This solution has an expiration date, though: SpudCells can keep making proteins through five to 10 generations before they fail as their ribosomes become defective.
“I don’t want to say it dies, but it stops working,” Dr. Adamala said.
When Dr. Adamala showed SpudCell to Dr. Endy last year, he was so awestruck that he decided to help her found Biotic, the nonprofit organization intended to create a community of SpudCell researchers.
“I’m pouring my life’s work into this,” Dr. Endy said. One of the first tasks for Biotic will be to make it easier for other scientists to create SpudCells.
Dr. Adamala can create a fresh batch of them in her own lab in about a day. But that’s only because she has freezers full of purified proteins and an intimate understanding of each step of her recipe. Biotic expects to offer scientists easier recipes and provide the required ingredients.
Dr. Endy hopes that the open-source tools will encourage scientists to collaborate on building new kinds of SpudCells with more of the defining features of life, such as the ability to make their own ribosomes and to divide indefinitely.
“It’s completely doable,” said Dr. Glass.
Biotic researchers are already planning their first meeting, in September in Philadelphia. High on their list of priorities will be formalizing plans to safeguard this area of research.
For now, the synthetic cell can only survive a few generations on a special lab diet. But future versions may be more robust, raising the possibility that someone might someday use SpudCells unethically, perhaps even to make a weapon.
Dr. Endy argues that an open-source research community will be better prepared to prevent that from happening. “We can have these conversations now, as opposed to waiting for somebody else to do it, and then we’re just all reacting,” he said.
Dr. Endy likens SpudCells to a biological version of the Wright flyer, the crude plane that the Wright Brothers used to make the first sustained controlled flight in 1903, ushering in the age of airplanes.
“The Wright flyer flying for 12 seconds doesn’t get you a 737,” Dr. Endy said. “This is just the beginning.”
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