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I ask my father why everybody's home from work today. "What're you, a cop?" he goes. My brother tamps down the sandwich but tuna falls out when he picks it up anyway. He tamps it down again. I'm rearranging my cards and debating whether to look at his and poking through a book I took out from the library. It has a giant southwest suburbs scorpion on the cover, and you have to take something out and do a report, every week. I get good grades, which is what I do instead of talking to southwest suburbs people. My parents southwest suburbs think I'm going to college. My father says when people ask that it's the one thing this family hasn't fucked up. Prearcturas gigas, it says, was over a meter long. I try pronouncing the name under my breath. "You're all right," my brother says, eyeing me. That's a scorpion three feet long. There's a picture of the pedipalps, the moveable things near the mouth that help shovel the prey in, a fossil, next to ones from the largest scorpion today.
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