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Show "I think my head is snapping," Leah said, almost trembling the seatbelt out of its lock. "You'll be all right," Hunt said. "That's what you think." Saturday night, through what Hunt felt was a constant shaking of his upper bones, it was told. His parents listened, wept. They asked him questions. Leah listened. She said she felt she had a gun held at her head. Hunt said that he didn't want to go into it, string out histories, but there were reasons He said he had been self-destructive and didn't want to be any more. Leah bit a nail until the cuticle bled. Afterwards, around ten o'clock, they all had drinks and built a fire. .Hunt's mother noticed ants carrying other ants and crumbs of blue cheese across the hearth. She got a can and sprayed: "Everybody stand back," she said. "Cover your drinks." For a half-hour, before they all went to bed, they sat and watched the ants die and talked about the roots and meanings of "formication." "Ants are actually theological," Hunt's father, a professor at both Harvard and MIT, said. In the night Hunt and Leah laughed about the possibilities of ants in their navels, under their arms. They made good love in the morning and then showered. "Get out of my bathroom, you bastard." Leah pushed him and laughed. "O.K., lady," Hunt said. And all day Sunday, even driving back to New Hampshire, into snow, against the dark oncoming shapes of shot deer, they kept |