Small, black ants scurry on top of yesterday’s spilled sugar and pumpkin spice, spreading a dark bloom across an otherwise neat countertop. They move in erratic bursts, the ants, silently, sinking and falling as they climb the sugar pile and collide into one another. The mess makes me uneasy. Their presence leaves a familiar, unsettling pit in my stomach. There shouldn’t be any reason for the ants to be here to take our sugar. We just remodeled our kitchen last year with brand new cabinets, sealed windows, and caulk in the tiniest of crevices. Every possible gap to outsiders was closed off, yet when my eyes follow the thinning trail of their march, there it is: an open window. My husband must have opened and forgotten about it.

Normally, I’d shoo the ants away immediately. I don’t know if this is because I was curious where they would go or what else they would do, or if the gentle breeze from the open window just felt so good—but instead, I began to clean up around them in silence, eyeing them periodically. I scrub the dishes in the sink with hot, soapy water, and two more chores later, the ants are still circling the sugar pile. Some have begun to drift off toward the edge, while others take their sugar and make their way back to the window. And then I feel anxious all over again: the ants move and split up with no guarantee that they will ever find their way back home. All for the sake of some sugar left out by a stranger who may or may not harm them and the ants they love. And I wonder if they might be better off sealing their own ant tunnels, missing the sugar and the breeze, dreadfully anticipating the day their own walls are penetrated, but grateful to at least hold onto what they do have—for just a little while longer.