8/6: Introduction

If a hell band is bagpipes and an accordion, surely there’s a place in heaven’s band for maracas. The incessant hiss begins every day at around 9. By noon, it’s a noise so white it almost cleans the day. But at night, when the kids are in bed, while she sweeps the heaps of dead, dying, and emerging cicadas and their exoskeletons from the front porch and into the storm drain, the music is done. The bug music, the wardrobe debates, the telephone calls—all are done. It’s so quiet that Caroline swears something must be wrong.