The Boy was accustomed to insects. He’d grown up on a farm. Barnyard animals, bails of hay, stacks of pallets upon which countless cobwebs were spun. He was not afraid of it, but the feeling was not mutual. It was a defensive mechanism that no one seemed to be aware of – the tarantula rubbed its abdomen and released a cloud of tiny barbed hairs, embedding straight into The Boy’s right eye. He screamed like he had never screamed before. Flushing station, saline drops, useless. There was nothing his father could do to alleviate the burn. Urticulating Hairs. That’s what the doctor kept calling them. Potential damage of vision, he kept telling them. Permanent.