And rightmost yet is the gecko. Pivoting its torso, the gecko unpeels the setae of the toetips of its left forefoot from the glass and lifts the leg up into the air. When it lowers its foot, I think, it will be as if it is stepping deeper into my dream. And the effect will become only more pronounced once the gecko, moving inexorably leftward, actually begins crawling over the reflection of my face. Then it will plant its setae onto my cheek, onto the bridge of my nose and onto my dark eyes; it will pivot its torso over the temples of my skull, suctioning and unsuctioning its feet; and as it crawls across my transparent forehead—its body showing through the reflection of my skin, visible within it like a star behind a cloud—it will be descending quite literally into my mind. Except why wait for it to reach me? I scoot my chair a few inches to the right, leaning my elbows onto the desk and positioning the reflection of my face on the patch of glass directly in between the gecko and the mites. Now if the gecko wants to reach its prey—or to confront their guardian the moth—it will have to cross my face. The gecko pauses. The foot that it has lifted is brought down again, precisely where it was. Its heart beats nervously against its skin. Its tail swishes from side to side. Did it somehow detect my reflection in the windowpane? Did it see my face rush toward it—this huge disembodied head, twenty times its size, gliding across the opposite side of the glass—and does it see it now, an obstacle between itself and the mites? No, it is impossible: my face, however gigantic and terrible an object, must be invisible to the gecko. And whatever it was that caused the gecko to stop short (perhaps the scraping of my chair against the wooden floor) must no longer be a consideration, for it lifts its leg again and steps forward. I lean back in my chair, putting another two feet between myself and the desk, such that the reflection of my face is not four, but, yes, six feet deep in the windowpane, and such that, even as the gecko approaches it, my face is digging a grave in the windowpane. Now, when the gecko finally does cross over, it will perforce be thrown down into that grave: its body will tumble six feet deep into the windowpane, entombed in my face’s reflection. I turn my head in profile to the right, so that my reflection is made to face the gecko in the glass. (Sitting like this, I can no longer look my reflection in the face: unable to see it there—lying at the bottom of the six feet that it digs and that it is—I feel as though I am averting my gaze from a grave just as I did last summer.) I squint at the window out of the corner of my left eye, watching as the gecko advances toward my reflection.