THE TOWN’S FLOWERS have set seed in the late-spring wet hot air, as the land prepares for the rains. It is nearly hatching time for the gall wasps. Swollen, pregnant growths deform the limbs as larvae gnaw and suck at the sap. Soon, they will chew their way out into the light and take flight, leaving behind tumorous holey lumps oozing with stolen vitality. The hunt for a mate begins and ends in just a few days, and then all that’s left to do is find somewhere to lay, safe from predation and precarious weather, with plenty of sustenance for the children. In times past, the new growth of a citrus tree would do – but times change, and many can play host to the ravenous young. 

Which brings us to you. You’re late for your shift, have to speed walk through your home town’s streets towards the squat hospital on the other side of the river. Even though there’s still some daylight left, the main street is empty of people, and you know the ones who are out don’t want to speak with you. These are the people who burnt the citrus groves and chucked all their lemons, who’ve painted their skin with clay and covered their bodies with clothes even in this heat, and who turned the only hospital in the region into a quarantine zone for the infested. Aside from your status as unwanted prodigal son, they’re taking no chances with someone working so close to what they call ‘the Holeys’.