"Let's see," he says.
I show him two pin marks enclosed in a dime-sized area of pinkish irritation on my thigh.
"Oh!" he says, like he's answering a trivia question. "It's a spider bite!"
"Spider. Bite?" I ask. "Spiders?"
"Yeah," he says. "They're all over the place."
He gestures in such a way that I half expect to see us transported to an urban street scene where crowds of spiders -- in business suits, berets, carrying briefcases, cellos -- brush past us.
"Spider bite?" I ask. I'm still not understanding the cause and effect of these two dots within a circle.
"Yeah," he says. "You can tell by the fang marks."
He holds his hands up like claw-shaped stingers.
"Or whatever they bite you with," he says.
I scratch my arm. Then my back. Now my stomach. Then my leg again.