“You spot and I will kill them”, she said as she buttoned a shirt over her undergarment.
The speaker was the first-born, a brawny eight-year-old, who had inherited these genes from her father. The younger one weighed a little less than the children of her age and had suffered breathing troubles when she played or ran. This did not stop her, she built this to her advantage – she observed the world around her. It was this skill that her sister was talking about that morning, when they had decided to kill the mango bugs in their house.
Each summer, the girls adopted a rescue mission – real or imaginary, and this year, they had settled on rescuing their parents, their house, and the world from the yellow-blooded slimy monsters. They armed themselves with native weapons and walked like little Indians on the day of their initiation – scared but ready.
“There’s one”, whispered the younger one.
“See! There! In that corner”, she held her sister’s hand and pointed its index finger at the bug.
“Yesss… I see it.”
The last syllable in yes escaped with a whistle, where she missed a tooth. It had come out tinged with blood, stuck in the flesh of mango that she was eating, in the week past. She had run, holding the fruit, the tooth still sticking out, to show her sister first.
“Kill it”, her sister prodded her now.
That night as they lay next to each other on the bamboo mats, directly under the night sky, they deliriously counted the thirty bugs they had found and killed. The world had been saved. As they slept in peace knowing that, yet another summer was coming to an end.