The air smells distinctly of shortbread; their favorite—of their mother’s baked goods. And then an infusion of lavender and a diffusion of something they do not recognize, fills their senses and surrounds them. Looking over their left shoulder, back across the green green grass, toward what looks to be a patch of garden, by a large, decrepit house and its wrapping porch, they walk over toward the buzzing garden. ZZiioozzit. They whip their head around at the sound. “Dei!” they hear ever so softly on the air. Turning, they look down at the top of their right shoulder, toward the sound. A tiny ladybug stands waving its arms, trying to get their attention, “Dei!” “Hi,” Dei begins as they lift their left hand—palm up—up to their shoulder, “would you like to come over here?” The ladybug, “It’s Ladybug,” the ladybug interrupts. “Just Ladybug,” Ladybug corrects. Ladybug quickly scurries onto Dei’s comfortable palm.