I set my attention back to the task at hand and refill my cup; a beetle plops out of the jug and starts doing the breaststroke along the surface of my vintage. Its black legs paddle madly, and I think maybe I should give it a hand, blow it to the other side so it can climb out and live—bestow a deus ex, but that’s not how life is. You’re always alone, and the beetle needs to learn this.
