Once the dog stops howling I notice the ants. They’re climbing up my legs, across my stomach and into the styrofoam container holding my burrito. I would later inadvertently transport at least a dozen of the busy creatures into my apartment. But in that moment, reclining on a hill of brown, scratchy grass, the sun trust-falling slowly backwards into the arms of the far side of earth as Aaron Read and I pour various hot sauces onto our dinners—I don’t mind.