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The transition from a mundane afternoon of yard work to a state of absolute physiological terror happened in a fraction of a second. It is a peculiar facet of the human experience that our most profound shifts in perspective often occur during the most domestic of tasks. One moment, I was engaged in a stubborn wrestling match with a temperamental lawnmower, the scent of fresh-cut grass and gasoline filling the air; the next, the world narrowed down to a single, terrifying point on my ankle. There, clinging with a chillingly focused tenacity, was a lone star tick. It didnβt look like an insect so much as a small, parasitic invader that had decided it owned the very ground it was feeding upon.
