They’re everywhere. Behind the cupboard doors, on the shelves, the backs of chairs. Any dark place where they can hide from a stinging flashlight and the murderous clap of a hand or a shoe. The woman is always on alert for cockroaches—the wriggling things could be anywhere. Even the blushing roses threaded onto her pillowcase look menacing in low light. She has to admire them, though. They switch directions to dodge her blows. They brace for impact. There has to be some intelligence there, some natural instinct for self-preservation. In her kitchen, on an autumn afternoon, the woman senses their presence. She taps the children’s drawings on the wall. Cockroaches spiral out from their paper blankets, running from the imagined threat.