"WAIT!" Claudia shouts, breathless, holding the cicada shell in front of her like she's witnessing a birth or a scientific breakthrough. Her eyes are trained on the slightly mossy cicada, she waits for it to move, to squeak, to do anything.

But all it does it sit there, warm and covered in moss, a kind of weird feeling filling her head. What is that feeling? She shoves it at the nearest person. "Touch this," she demands. "Then describe it."