She trundled down the street—why did she always ask for the brown paper bags. It wasn't about the environment, in fact, she always felt duped by this in particular: was plastic really worse than paper, since paper you need to cut down trees? No, it was because of the smell. The smell of the paper bags had always drawn her respect. Not like gasoline, but subtler and more heady, like a curry. When she was told the way cockroaches hid in paper bags, she understood, but felt she could never elaborate. Not that there was no way to corroborate with the roaches, she knew a series of tests could be performed, like Pavlov. But she knew this was a test that would never be conducted. Insects were left behind in these tests. They fail both tests: they're not cute and we can't inject them with something to see if they roll over, loose their hair, grow an extra nut. She considered changing course, of switching to plastic, but at the moment, even the idea seemed crazy.