*****

She trots enthusiastically down a grassy hill toward the garden where she spots her grandfather bent low over rows of potato plants. Standing straight to slap a bug off his back he sees her coming, and hails her with his hand, "Want to help find the potato bugs Dagmar?"

"Sure!" She runs to where he is standing, and peers into the coffee can he is holding. The smell of kerosine makes her sick in the hot air.

She walks ahead of Grandpa, eyes peeled for a hard, compact body tucked behind a stem or a gooey cluster of eggs clinging to the fragile leaves. The potato bugs cling stubbornly to the plants, but when she finds one Grandpa holds the leaf steady over the can and she flicks it hard so that the bug falls into the kerosine with a solid "plop". When she finds a cluster of eggs she points a precise finger at them, careful not to touch, and wrinkles her nose as Grandpa rubs them off with his hand.

When the rows are finish Grandpa swishes the can, and she hears the bugs knocking against the sides. She sees the bodies, the many bodies, legs and antennea still, floating inside.

*****