She is late for work, watches two men in the street throw tantrums as the neighbor’s dog runs circles round them. She sees a woman peering from a window. Driving, there are rabbits in the road, bellies burst, ravens hopping, pecking, beaks grasping entrails that swing behind black wings flapping as her car approaches. Lunch is a hurried bag of Taco Bell, sitting outside at a table set in hot concrete, and she closes her eyes as a taco shell crunches, feeling wet grass on bare feet, and looks up at a pale moon staring down like a diseased eye. He’s out there, somewhere, she thinks. Still working at that garage in El Monte, maybe? Still on parole, probably. Her brother is two years dead next week, perhaps still floating in the river, likely dragged out after snagging on branches from a fallen tree. There’s a swarm coming for her, she’s sure. A wasp’s nest, incensed, vengeful. Pulling into her driveway after work, the neighbor’s dog is loose in her yard, sniffing around for the black hole where she buried her heart. She watches the news, eats microwaved Thai coconut chicken, and two men, they look almost like the men from this morning, are captured on cellphone video, shooting each other with handguns— a woman in the background, gazing out a window. She dreams in unlit stillness of her brother, splashing, and there are wasps, Tarantula Hawks, multitudes bristling, surrounding them both with sound, a vibration so very much like her true name. He drowns trying to tell her a secret.