Sober-faced, the child stepped out into the backyard for the third time that warm August afternoon, a Betsy Wetsy doll dangling on tiny, translucent fingertips from the girl’s small, damp ones.  Pausing in the brilliance at the edge of the tall elms, she listened to the crickets hidden in the grass and the “ssswah” of crunch-shell cicadas.  A jocund breeze tumbled the leaf canopy, startling her.  She squinted upwards. “Don’t poop!” Oh, no birds now.  Lowering Betsy from a rain bonnet position, she picked a cautious path to the rusty lawn chair mid-yard.  Toppling it, blowing off silver moth mush, she lowered herself gingerly onto the seat’s reverse.  She shivered, watching the hundred little circle bandages pucker, peachy pale against her tanned skin despite the sun’s cradling warmth.  But, kissy sweat bees visited, nuzzling her wet curls–liking the smell of Halo shampoo, too!    Very slowly, she rocked her seat.  Slowly, Betsy relaxed against her–gazed with her in rapt wonder at the walking stick bug on the old wooden clothes prop nearby, their backs to the patch of prickly pear cactus that had earlier made her one peewee pincushion.