THE CICADAS HAVE arrived at Rose Lavelle's woodsy childhood home, surrounding the Cincinnati cul-de-sac in a siren of shrieking and clattering. A doorbell rings and Janet Lavelle, matriarch of the family, answers and eagerly steps outside. She wants to show a squeamish visitor the backyard, once the playground for one of the world's most exhilarating soccer players, but now the site of an apocalypse.
"Look at this guy," she says as she points to a cluster of red-eyed creatures on a tree. "My son ate one of these when he was 14. On purpose!