I HAVE A memory of being about five years old in the backyard of the house I grew up in. I’d noticed ants climbing into a bucket of our dog’s drinking water and being swept out like ice skaters across the surface of it. I knew they were drowning. I squatted and diligently plucked the ants out one by one and placed them on the concrete. I blew on them, imagining air entering their little lungs.

When I turned back to the bucket of water, there were more ants drowning. I plucked those out as well, put them on the ground, blew on them. No matter how many I saved, more would drown. I was glued to the bucket, knowing that as soon as I decided to go and do something else, nobody would rescue the ants.