Mayra decided Amelia had adopted me.
There was no evidence for this.
Except, apparently, all the evidence.
She stood beside the desk the next morning, arms crossed, staring at the bottle cap of sugar water near the window.
Then she looked at Amelia.
Then at me.
I sat on the curtain rod in normal mosquito posture.
Amelia sat at her desk reading.
Mayra pointed at the sugar.
“What is that?” “Sugar water.” “I can see that.” “Then why did you ask?” Mayra stared at her.
“Why is it on the windowsill?” Amelia turned one page.
“For observation.” “Of what?” Silence.
Mayra slowly looked toward me.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh my God.” Amelia closed the book.
“No.” “You adopted the mosquito.” “I did not.” “You’re feeding it.” “I am observing whether it returns to a controlled food source.” Mayra placed one hand over her heart.
“That is the most Amelia way possible to say pet.” I gave one long, high buzz.
Idiot.
Mayra looked up.
“See?
He agrees.” No.
Amelia’s gaze shifted toward me.
She had noticed the distinct sound.
Danger.
I became still.
Mayra dragged a chair toward the window.
I lifted off before she finished climbing.
“Come here, little guy.” No.
I moved toward the ceiling.
Mayra followed with her eyes rather than swatting.
Small point in her favor.
“What do mosquitoes eat besides blood?” “Plant sugars,” Amelia said.
Mayra immediately checked the cap.
“How concentrated?” Amelia looked at her.
“What?” Mayra said.
“If we’re feeding it, we should at least not drown it in syrup.” That was unexpectedly sensible.
She took a clean bottle cap, diluted the mixture, and moved it farther from the edge where a draft could overturn it.
Then she placed a folded tissue beneath it to catch spills.
Competent management hidden beneath nonsense.
Interesting.
“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Mayra asked.
Amelia looked toward me.
“I have not examined it closely enough.” Good.
Keep it that way.
Mayra smiled.
“We need a name.” “We do not.” “Needles.” Terrible.
“Buzz.” Worse.
“Kevin.” Absolutely not.
I delivered the idiot buzz.
Mayra pointed.
“He hates Kevin.” Coincidence.
Amelia’s eyes sharpened.
“Okay,” Mayra said.
“Not Kevin.” Good.
Then the door opened.
A young man entered carrying two coffees and a paper bag.
Brown hair, canvas jacket, camera strap across one shoulder.
“Door was open,” he said.
“It wasn’t,” Amelia replied.
He stopped and looked at the lock.
Mayra smiled.
“I let him in.” Amelia stared.
Mayra ignored it.
“This is Sam.” Sam lifted one coffee.
“Student paper.
Occasional victim of Mayra’s poor decisions.” “Friend,” Mayra corrected.
“Debatable.” I liked him slightly.
Then Sam noticed me.
“Oh.” No.
He looked at the sugar cap, then Amelia, then Mayra.
“Is this the mosquito?” Mayra had already told him.
Operational security had failed before operations existed.
“Yes,” Mayra said proudly.
Amelia said, “No.” Sam stared.
“How can the answer be no?” “There are many mosquitoes.” Excellent.
Mayra pointed at me.
“That one keeps coming back.” Sam approached the window.
I moved higher.
He stopped instead of following.
“Smart,” he said.
No.
Normal predator avoidance.
Then he smiled.
“Needles.” Idiot buzz.
Mayra laughed.
“He hates that too.” Sam glanced at Amelia.
“You trained it?” “No.” “Does it bite?” I considered demonstrating.
Amelia looked directly at me.
Fine.
Sam put the paper bag on Mayra’s desk.
“Campus facilities sent a pest warning, by the way.” My attention sharpened.
“Because of the giant roach?” Mayra asked.
“Because of torn window screens on three floors and something living in the vents.” Amelia became very still.
Sam continued.
“Jose says raccoons.” Mayra looked at the ceiling vent.
“Raccoons fit through that?” “No.” “Then why raccoons?” “Because unknown mutant bug traffic isn’t in the facilities form.” He laughed.
Nobody else did.
The cockroach had come through that vent.
More might follow.
The problem was larger than Room 317.
Sam left after fifteen minutes.
Mayra ate most of the paper bag’s contents.
Amelia ignored both of them with professional discipline.
Then Mayra did something unforgivable.
She found a clear food container and began modifying it.
Ventilation holes in the lid.
A clean cotton pad.
A shallow water cap.
A separate sugar cap.
A folded strip of tissue tucked into one corner as shelter.
“What are you doing?” Amelia asked.
“Making him somewhere safe to land if we spray for bugs.” That explanation was almost reasonable.
Then Mayra added a tiny bottle-cap bed.
Reason abandoned.
“He is not entering that,” Amelia said.
“He might.” Mayra placed the container near the window and wrote on a piece of tape: KEVIN’S HOUSE No.
I flew directly at the sign.
Mayra ducked.
“He’s attacking the label!” Good.
I landed on the tape and pulled.
It did not move.
Mosquito-scale sabotage was humiliating.
Mayra laughed.
Amelia watched with an expression that became far too thoughtful.
Normal mosquitoes did not object to names.
I released the tape and flew away.
Mayra smiled triumphantly.
“Kevin.” Idiot buzz.
Amelia’s mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
Traitor.
That evening, Amelia left fresh sugar water near the window.
I refused to approach while either woman watched.
Mayra eventually went to shower.
Amelia lowered her gaze to her book.
I waited.
Then flew down and drank.
The mixture was better balanced than before.
Mayra’s work.
I would never admit that.
Amelia turned one page.
The corner of her mouth curved.
She had known exactly when I landed.
Fine.
Let her think she was training me.
I was using her room for safe food and climate control.
Resource exchange.
Then Amelia quietly moved the plastic enclosure farther from the sugar, giving me a clear approach instead of forcing me near it.
“Leave him alone,” she told Mayra when she returned.
Mayra stopped.
Then slowly smiled.
“You called him him.” Amelia froze.
I froze.
Mayra pointed between us.
“Oh, this is getting weird.” Idiot buzz.
She laughed.
Room 317 had acquired three problems: mutated insects in the vents, Amelia’s growing suspicion, and Mayra Bennett’s conviction that I was a pet.
The third remained the most personally offensive.