Walking across wet parking lots is a type of parkour. I lighten my steps and make uneven zig-zags so I can avoid my obstacles, the worms. I keep my eyes trained on the ground to make sure I don't misstep, although I do avert my gaze from the dead ones. Their flattened forms make me feel sick.
Although, if I'm being honest, all the worms are a little sick.
Today, I saved one from the pavement. The soil it came from was elevated by the curb, a cliff to such a small creature. I picked it up so it wouldn't get run over or dry out during the quest to make it back home. The only thing I felt bad about was how my nails weren't long enough to do so efficiently.
When I set the worm down it didn't burrow back underground immediately. I noticed that its tail end looked a little flattened and realized someone had stepped on it, or maybe a bike wheel had crushed it. But then it kept crawling, towards me, towards the pavement. I saw other worms emerging from the soil, hanging off the curb to do the same. I looked behind me and saw the ones who'd already made it, languidly relaxing in the few millimeters of water that had gathered. And I realized that I had interfered with a process that I couldn't begin to understand.
See, that's why I call them sick. I don't live in a world where my fate is to strive towards a watery utopia that will ultimately obliterate me if I overstay my welcome. I have family, and friends, and hobbies, and a career ahead of me. But when I think about it, I suppose the most crucial difference is that I have a choice. If all worms know how to do is march to their deaths, then what am I supposed to do about it? Teach them how to read?
I'm inside now, typing this on the laptop that I could afford to choose. When I go back out, I'll take the same path I always have and let the worms die.