Chapter 8: Cicada Nymphs

As Mark stepped out of the yard, he was surprised to see Clyde Thompson following behind him. He paused, turning back with a puzzled look.

"I'll walk with you for a bit," Clyde said.

Mark was taken aback but didn't question it. He simply nodded and walked alongside his uncle toward the woods.

"You really saved the day back there, Mack," Clyde said after a moment.

When they reached a spot where the trees blocked the view of the house, Clyde stopped and glanced back at the dimly lit yard. He let out a heavy sigh.

"She hasn't eaten in three days, Mark," he said, his voice low and rough. "No matter what we say, she won't touch a bite. Your aunt cried her eyes out trying to get her to eat, but it was no use. If you hadn't come over, I don't know how much longer she could've held on."

Mark felt a lump rise in his throat. He forced a small smile and nodded. "Then I'll come by every day to eat with her, Uncle. Don't worry about it."

Clyde patted him on the shoulder, his eyes red with emotion. "She dotes on you the most. If anyone can get her to eat, it's you."

Regaining some composure, Clyde straightened up and waved a hand. "Alright, get on home. When you come by tomorrow, stop by the house first. I'll boil some eggs for her. She needs something with a little substance."

"Got it."

Mark answered simply and turned to leave. His expression grew heavy as he walked. In just a single day, he had been reminded—again and again—just how hard life was. And not just for his family, but for nearly everyone.

From a distance, Mark spotted a figure waiting by the gate. As he got closer, he recognized his mother, Mary Thompson.

"Did she eat?" she asked, trying to sound calm.

Mark nodded, offering a reassuring smile. "She had a corn cake. I'll go back tomorrow to bring her more food—Uncle and I already made plans."

Mary exhaled, relief flickering across her face. She glanced at him and said, "You should get some rest. You're heading to town tomorrow, aren't you? That's a thirty-mile walk. No harm in waiting a few more days, you know."

Mark knew she was worried about him, but he had his reasons for leaving early. His grandmother needed real food—meat, if he could get it. And once he was in town, he'd have a reason to bring something back.

To ease her concern, he suddenly bent his knees, then sprang up, throwing a few playful punches in the air.

"See? I've got plenty of energy!" he grinned. "I'm fine, Ma. You don't need to worry about me."

Mary startled at his antics but quickly sighed, shaking her head with a chuckle. She reached out and gave him a light swat on the head.

"Foolish boy! Stop jumping around and go to bed!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Mark snapped into a mock salute, standing at attention like a soldier.

Mary burst into laughter, the tension in the air finally lifting. But just as things settled, the door creaked open, and Isabel squeezed through, attempting to slip past them. Mary caught her by the arm and gave her two light smacks on the backside.

"Where do you think you're going at this hour, young lady?"

The swats didn't hurt in the slightest. Isabel squirmed and whined, "Mama, I wanna go catch cicada grubs with Little Maggie!"

Mary frowned. "What nonsense! It's only April—there aren't any yet. Go to bed!"

"There are, Mama! Maggie caught two yesterday, and she said they were delicious! If I find some, we can have meat for dinner!" Isabel was determined, her eyes shining with excitement.

Mark had been about to dismiss the idea, but when Isabel mentioned cicada grubs, something clicked in his mind.

Cicada nymphs.

A rare gift from the land, especially in a place as barren as this. Every summer, these creatures burrowed out of the ground, climbed trees, and shed their skins to become full-grown cicadas. Before molting, they were plump, packed with protein, and—when roasted—crisp and nutty like fried egg whites.

It was early for them, but the drought had pushed the seasons forward. Maybe Isabel was right.

"Let her go, Ma. I'll watch her," Mark said.

Mary hesitated, studying his face. After his little performance earlier, she had no doubt that he was well enough to be out and about.

"Fine," she relented. "But you keep an eye on her. And stay out of the fields—those guards don't care if you're just a child."

Mark nodded. He knew exactly what she was worried about.

Many farms had been seized by banks, and to keep desperate folks from taking even a handful of wheat, they had stationed hired guards—men who weren't from the community, men who didn't care. If you got too close to the crops, they'd beat you. If you fought back, they'd pull a gun.

"Thanks, Mama!" Isabel squealed, wriggling free and grabbing Mark's hand.

"Don't run too fast!" Mary called after them, but neither of them listened.

Isabel's best friend, Little Maggie, lived just up the road. Their house was second to last in the village, with the Thompsons' home marking the end of the row.

"Maggie! Maggie! Have you eaten yet?" Isabel hollered, bouncing on her toes outside the wooden fence.

A girl with thin limbs and large eyes rushed out, her face lighting up—until she saw Mark. Then she shrank back slightly, suddenly shy.

"I was just about to come find you," Maggie said. "If we wait too long, it'll be too dark to see, and we won't be able to catch any cicada grubs. Mark, you're coming too?"

Mark smiled and nodded.

From the yard, Maggie's father called out, "Mack, you watch over them, you hear?"

"Yes, sir!" Mark answered naturally.

The way folks addressed each other around here was simple: older men were "uncle" if they were your father's age, "grandpa" if they were older, and everyone else was just "sir" or "ma'am." Blood ties didn't always matter—respect did.

"Are there any cicada grubs in our woods?" Isabel asked eagerly once they were walking.

Maggie shook her head. "Our woods are too small. We have to go south, where the trees are thicker."

"Think we'll find any?"

"Maybe! Bubba and the boys found three earlier, but they were small ones."

Mark walked behind them, watching as they chattered excitedly. The evening air was cooler now, carrying the scent of dry earth and distant smoke. Fireflies were just beginning to flicker.

For the first time all day, he felt himself relax.

Even in hard times, there were still simple joys—like two little girls chasing after a meal the land had freely given.