Ben's eyes fill with tears, and I fill with regret. Despite the fact that I've drowned a million slugs in my garden — set beer traps out for them like some fatal gastropod keg party — I've grown fond of this particular one, since my son is so fond of him. We set Sluggy's body in the bushes with sorrow and with hope that he might nourish a hungry bird. This is the classic flip-flop we see in nature documentaries on TV, isn't it? When the show's about the lion, you root for the lion; when the show's about the gazelle, you root against the lion. Now all we can do is root for a bird looking for lunch. How do you steer a kind heart when the winds of righteousness are so constantly shifting? Ben's no different from the rest of us; he's often baffled, but he's doing the best he can to find his way. "Sometimes it's hard to know what to care the most about," he says one day over a bowl of cereal, and I can only nod in vague understanding. "Maybe you don't need to pick," I offer, and he sighs, watches out the window as the birds chase a hungry squirrel from our feeder, and says quietly, "Maybe not."