On my first morning in the cleanroom, I rehearsed the gowning sequence in my head: hairnet, then hood, then coverall, then the second pair of gloves that must never touch the outer suit before the boots were sealed. The protocol was printed on the wall, but my hands moved faster than my memory. Halfway through, I reached for the wafer carrier with a glove I had already brushed against my sleeve—one motion from contaminating a week of someone else's work. I froze. Across the bench, a senior technician caught my eye and, without a word, tapped two fingers slowly on the edge of the table, the signal to stop and reset. No lecture, no sigh. I stripped the outer gloves, started the sequence again, and my breathing settled. The room hummed the same as before, but I no longer felt I was the only variable that might fail.