A giant Blue Morpho had landed right on the crown of her head and was sitting there like it’d found a new home. “That’s incredible,” I whispered, slowly inching my phone out of my pocket to take a picture and show her. “Holy shit,” she gasped. “What do I do?” “They like when you sing to them,” I told her. “Really? Like, what kind of song?” “Like a slow jazz number.” “Are you fucking with me?” My mouth turned up on one side. “Give us your best Etta James.” Ophelia rolled her eyes, and even more spectacularly, the butterfly started crawling onto her forehead. “Oh, fuck. Oh god, I can feel its
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