There was a hole behind and a little above her ear, covered by a flap of skin. It looked like a resting eye. Yanni had lifted her hair up to show me, and then she started to sing, a wordless little croon, and tap at her mastoid bone. I watched as something stirred, beneath the skin. Then it poked its head out, tiny black eyes shining, the antenna swept behind it. The legs emerged and it pulled itself forward, the long brown carapace, smooth and mottled sliding out.
"His name is Georg," Yanni said. "You should think what you will name yours."
It - he - crawled across the table top, no bigger than a thumbnail, carapace shaded yellow and green.
"Let him crawl onto your hand." Yanni hovered on the other side of the table. Georg was absently crawling over her forehead.
Mhari obediently stayed still as he found her hand, and began to climb.
"They mostly eat dead skin, the stuff that flakes off and sheds naturally. They don't go after living tissue, shy away from open wounds. What you will need to keep on about is water; they need a couple milliliters a day, or they dry out."
The little bug had climbed the first step of Mt. Mhari, and found her cuticle: a ragged bit of yellow hide she had a tendency to pick at. He began to nibble. It didn't hurt; in fact she could hardly feel it.