Of Paradise and Parasites

Stillman has made a self-discovery. He hiked a beach with Pan, Dionysus, and J and dismissed their whimpering and flapping arms as he led them, shirtless, through the scrub back to the car. He sighed through his nose. He rolled his eyes. Sometimes he waved his arms like a Chinese lucky cat so they would not feel he was ignoring their distress, though he was in fact ignoring their distress.

Back at the house above The Bay, they counted welts—10, 20, 40, 80 ... 100+ each. They medicated with prophylactic rum against dengue fever and to toast the terrifically terrible persistence of syringe-nosed insects and flies with jaws larger than their heads--a feature that is physically impossible, but any creator who tried to explain that to the flies probably risked making it to Day 6. 

People said we're moving to Paradise, Stillman thought. So who's to say it isn't Paradise for parasites, as well as for people who make calendars? He considered the etymology of entomology, but again couldn't remember which was which.

Stillman vaccinated himself with the others but did not share that he had found all of three bumps on his back and shoulders ... and they might only be ganglion cysts, him being 50 and all. He feared his companions might be demoralized.

The next morning, Stillman sat on the porch with coffee and watched a singular mosquito bump against the ankle of his crossed leg. He wondered if hair would grow there now that he no longer had to wear socks or shoes. Five minutes passed. The mosquito's attention wandered. Eventually, so did the mosquito. A small, crested anoli leapt from a chair leg and did what Stillman could not bring himself to do.

Stillman went back inside where Pan and Dionysus were debating coffee or medicinal rum—or medicinal rum in their coffee. 

"I may be an X-Man," Stillman announced.