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What is going on that there are all these dead caterpillars this afternoon? What is going on that I am noticing them all?

I wonder if he notices them too. I wonder what he thinks of all this death on such a warm, spring day. I wonder what he really thinks of morbid me.

I shiver and reach for his hand.

He says, “Hold on.”

He bends and gently pokes a caterpillar with his finger.

“Isn’t it dead?” I ask anxiously.

“Not quite,” he answers as the caterpillar remembers movement and crawls into a patch of grass at the path’s edge.

“What made you pick that one?”

He smiles, takes my hand, and pulls me gently away.

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