The fire red ants washing like high surf over the mound over, way over, his ankles his calves, up like fire across like boiling oil until he forgot to move forgot to scream sitting on the ant pile, left there by his mom not on purpose just distracted with. . . Stingers like tiny Blue Shield razor blades and anyway he sits only wanting to die not dying not quite, not screaming just dying at the level of infected blood red even after Mrs. Gerbrandt clumped over in her high leather boot-shoes and lifted him out by the left arm He'll always be allergic to red fire ants. Maybe find a way to live without them.