The ladybugs started pouring in the week of Trump’s inauguration. Nobody wanted to be defenseless to the raw elements anymore, and this was Texas. Ladybugs are smart creatures. I’m not sure where they came in, but they crawled over every inch of the room’s southern wall. It was considerably warm, considering. Considering the onslaught of polar-sharp cuts and bans already signed into life by tiny orange hands, it was warm and the birds were out, jittering. We pooled ourselves into the small concrete office, stuck our noses into books, brows furrowed, shifting our eyes up to the corners of the room every few minutes to sigh, not knowing how one runs a small independent book press on the verge of a fascist takeover. It wasn’t until later, standing at the window for sun, that I heard the small, plastic crack of the dead ladybugs as they hit the floor.