As she stood there, her face flushed, waiting and watching for a pot of water to boil, Anne thought of her father, whose temper and trigger she had inherited. At night, he would escape into his radio plays.

“The security of mankind is guaranteed by the balance of nature. The law of the jungle is implacable.”

It had been five minutes, and the water was still cold to her touch. Anne had to be very quiet if she wanted to stay up and listen.

“You don’t understand. These are army ants. An elemental force. An act of God. Ants, nothing but ants.”

And Anne would stare at her father rapt in listening, a strange look in his eye, clouded and tired, and she made a wishful connection: He’s just like Leiningen versus the ants, stubbornness parading as resolution. Bless him or curse him for his anger and his fight. Despite the ants, despite everything, he won’t give up. So what if you’re driven mad by it? Anne spotted bubbles forming on the sides of the pot. Like her father, she would endure.

“I always knew the ants would come.”

A bubble floated to the top of the pot. She scratched her ankle again as it bled. She stood there sweating, upset at how long this was taking. She considered how much gas she had left in the can for the mower.

“They had me covered, and were devouring me. I couldn’t die like that.”

And finally, despite her vigil, the pot came to a boil. Anne slid open the screen door and put on oven mitts. She lifted the pot and carried it to the backyard. Her ankle itched fiercely.

Anne poured the boiling water over the dark hem of the mound. At first the water pooled at the top, scattering thousands, the ants pulling together in small rafts of survival. But the steady boiling cascade broke the surface tension and the mound became a red blanket of death. Still Anne poured slowly and carefully. As the gospel according to Neil Sperry had taught her, the water had to work down deep in order to scald the queen.

December 26

[ DECEMBER 26 ]

Dear Screwtape,

Great news, uncle—we’ve got him back. This junior tempter just earned his horns as a series of distractions I set in our prey’s path led to him breaking the Sabbath and cursing the day.

First, I left a five dollar bill on the ground in the parking lot of the diner where our candidate has his weekend bacon and eggs. This filled him with superstition that today was a lucky day and the Enemy was shining down on him. Your advice about focusing on his fanaticism for the Redskins was heeded—he went to the game instead of services—and working with Scabtree, the devil that runs that accursed Washington team . . .