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The previous time the cicadas had emerged, in 1987, I was six months pregnant with that nearly 17-year-old and we lived in periodical-cicada-free San Diego. We had just bought a $125,000 tract home on a newly laid cul-de-sac, and when I wasn’t working as a city hall reporter, I would spend long hours hiking through the San Diego Zoo, trying to wear out my then 2-year-old son. Our dog in both cycles was a black Lab, but one had been named Delta and the other Gem.