You arrive at a small town by a large lake. Down a road, there is a yellow Victorian house with an American flag. There are revelers here. They stand on the front lawn swilling ale and eating from bountiful plates of ham and beans. They invite you to join their assembly.
As you approach, however, something catches your attention: a strange buzzing sound in the air. It's coming from the tiny winged beasts that are hanging from the trees, crawling along the ground, and crashing clumsily against you. "Cicadas," explains your host, a heavyset man with a gray ponytail and thick glasses that magnify his eyes. "It's a good thing they don't have mandibles." Then, quite cordially, he invites you inside his house to play a game.
