by RM Cooper
After the funeral, haul Dad’s boxes to the storage unit. You’re nearly finished when the manager starts in about insurance.
“It happens,” the manager says. “Silverfish. Earwigs… Don’t believe me?” He pushes you aside and starts shifting boxes until there’s a crunch behind a crate labeled CAMPING. “See there?”—he flips his loafer for proof—“Worst ones: roaches. Be mulch within a year. Bug food. Nothing like you remember.”
A long smear stains the concrete beside CAMPING. Amongst bits of innards and antenna, a leg curls inward in some final reflex; tendons pulling back, reaching to make itself whole again.