Harper is snoring in Thanh’s ear. Is this what has woken him? There’s another noise in the room. That rustling again. That cellophane noise. Do you hear that? Thanh says. His tongue is thick. Harper. Harper says, Ungh. The noise increases. Harper says, What the hell, Thanh. Thanh is sitting up in bed now. He’s still drunk, but he is piecing together the things that Harper tried to tell him a few hours ago. Naomi has had the baby. Harper, he says. Harper gets up and puts on the light. There is movement in the room, a kind of black liquid rushing. Beetles are pouring—a cataract—out of the Bad Claw onto the table and down the wall, across the floor, and toward the bed and the window. Something urgent in their progress, some necessary, timely task that they are engaged in. The lively, massed shape of them is the shadow of an unseen thing, moving through the room. Scurrying night. There will be a night in the NICU, much later, when Thanh looks over at another isolette. Sees, in the violet light, a spider moving across the inside wall. Every year, the nurse says when he calls her over. Every spring we get a migration or something. Spiders everywhere. She reaches in, scoops the spider into a cup. “Christ on a bicycle!” Harper says. “What the fuck?” He and Thanh are out of the room as fast as they can go. Down the stairs, and out of the house. They stumble down the rough beach to the dock. The lumpy yurts silent and black. The sky full of so many stars. God has an inordinate fondness for stars and also for beetles. The small and the very far away. Harper has the suitcase. Thanh carries their shoes. No doubt they’ve left something behind.