Small Things

Earlier today, there was a cricket on the break room floor. I poked at it with the tip of my shoe, but it had lost the ability to use its back legs. It seemed really weak. I made a little noise - combined pity and disgust. James, one of the programmers, was pouring coffee into a paper cup.
"Oh, crap," he said. He sounded concerned that it had bothered me. His voice was soft and empathetic. "Yeah, that was in here earlier. I think he might be poisoned. You know, like a spray."
"Yeah, its legs aren't working." There was a long pause while we looked at it. "I feel kind of bad for it," I said.
"Yeah, me too." He paused. "It's probably dying of some residual poison. Or maybe just life. . . . Doesn't live long." He walked away slowly, careful not to spill his coffee. He walked with his head down as always.
"Yeah. . . ." I said.