The imago hangs in its cocoon.
“I bet it’s a bug,” Martin says. “Like, the kind that grow in dead things.”
Jane pokes at it nervously.
“She is not,” Jane says.
“It wriggles around squirmily in the case,” Martin says. “Then burst! It bursts out! It eats the corpse!”
He drops a bit of squirmy chaos dust on the back of Jane’s neck.
She flails. The knife in Jane’s hand slashes out. It cuts the membrane holding the imago in. Light leaks out.
“Oh, that’s so totally your fault,” Martin says.