The woods behind our home increased. The town square flooded with spiders and ticks. We developed communal habits of tucking our pant legs into our socks. Of using a lid at all times. Checking one another, every night, before bed. I reached my hand into the toe of a shoe and withdrew an enormous spider. It gnashed comically large mandibles. It curled itself toward my fingers. I watched it silently as a centipede worked its way down the wall. I looked for something about it that was like a broken baby but it was spider through and through. I placed it in a shoe box with air holes and a saran wrap lid. It pulsed in the base of the box, and the lights in our building seemed to bruise.