It's near the end of a cicada year, the leaves just starting on their twilight colors. Their chirruping grows the longer we dig, louder and louder. As if they're having themselves a powwow all around, talking none too soft. Wondering how come the six of us brought these shovels all the way out here. Instant interest given a group of men standing over two corpses in shrouds. Death a common thing to any, be it bug or man. We're all dripping sweat to...