Identifying the Enemy
Mark wasn’t typically squeamish. He was the guy who caught spiders and put them outside rather than squishing them. But cockroaches were different. There is something visibly repulsive about them—the way their antennae twitch, the greasy sheen of their wings, the jagged speed of their movement. This one was particularly bold, stopping right in the middle of the open floor as if challenging him. It didn’t scurry away immediately; it stood its ground, testing the air with long, waving feelers.
It was an American Cockroach, the large, reddish-brown variety that seems to wear armor. Mark felt a wave of disgust ripple through him. He couldn’t just leave it there. If he walked away, it would disappear under the cabinets, only to re-emerge later—maybe in the pantry, maybe near the kids’ toothbrushes. No, he had to deal with this now. The primal hunter instinct kicked in. He needed a weapon, and he needed it fast before the intruder vanished.