“Tata, we’ve got to let the ants go,” L said tearfully. I’d noticed earlier that the ant farm was looking fairly harsh, with dirty sand and lethargic ants.  Who knew ants required so much care? We let them go in the backyard, but I knew that, absent a queen, theirs was a doomed future.

During evening prayers, L concluded, “I pray that the ants don’t go into a fire ant hill and kill themselves, and I pray they make their own home.”