George JuneBug heard the screen door slap open before he saw the bristles. He was a reddish-brown beetle the size of a thumbnail, parked again on the back porch he had sworn off twice that night. The light above the door was still on. It always was. He had counted three near-misses earlier — a sneaker by the doormat, a sandal at the step, a boot heel that grazed his shell near the frame — and then he had stopped counting. A week ago he had watched a moth get flattened on this same plank. He had not looked away in time. He came back anyway. June bugs and porches: different schedules, same ending. The broom came down hard. It was a stiff handmade thing, yellow straw bound with red and green thread, the bristles splayed wide from years of corners. A woman he could not see well pushed it in long, even strokes. Dust, a dead ant, and a curl of leaf shot past George in a wave. He scrambled sideways. The bristles caught his back legs and dragged him a foot across the boards before he tore free. At the porch edge waited the dustpan. It was metal, broad and shallow, with a red lip pressed flat to the wood. The lip made a thin silver line he was sliding toward. One more sweep would tip him in. He could already see what came after the pan — a shake over the grass at best, a trash bag at worst. The moth had not gotten a choice either. George ran for the only thing tall enough to break the stroke. A short wooden post stood near the railing, sunk into the porch as a marker for something he did not understand. Its base was split, the grain peeled up in a curl the size of his body. He wedged himself under the curl and locked his claws into the soft wood. The broom came again. Straw raked over his back, bent around the post, and kept going. The dustpan scraped, lifted, emptied somewhere he could not see. Footsteps crossed the boards. The screen door slapped shut. The light stayed on. George held the post until his legs stopped shaking. The porch was quiet now, swept clean except for him. He could see the dark lawn past the steps, and beyond it the shape of a yellow house with a white fence, the kind of place people said took in bugs. He had heard the rumor from a beetle near the hedge. He did not believe in rescues. He believed in the post, the curl of wood, the next sweep that would come tomorrow night when the light was still on and he was still here. He let go and started the long walk down toward the grass.