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not entering Paul’s room.
    His parents knew nothing about Bonnie’s return or her new place of residence, for she cautioned Paul repeatedly that it would be best if he said nothing at all. Nevertheless, it finally slipped out one night when he heard his parents speaking very, very loudly, in such harsh tones that they were almost unrecognizable as themselves. He heard his father say something about it not being his fault, and his mother said she knew it wasn’t; and he claimed that he was being treated as if it was, and she claimed he was wrong and being unfair to her and being insensitive; and for that matter she had been concerned that the baby looked off somehow and she had wanted to call the doctor but he had said no, she was imagining it, and if only he had listened; and then he replied that, see, there she was blaming it on him, and on and on until Paul could stand it no longer.
    He thudded on their bedroom door, standing there in his newly laundered pajamas with the feet on the bottom because he was always losing his slippers and the bare wood floors could be quite cold these winter days. Patrick Dear threw open the door, his eyes red as if he were about to cry, the very notion of which terrified Paul because he was of the opinion that mothers cried rarely and fathers never. “Satisfied? You woke him!” said his mother, and she looked angrier than Paul had ever seen her; but he knew that the next words out of his mouth would surely make everything all better.
    “Bonnie is happy,” said Paul. “I just thought you would want to know that. I speak to her every day and she’s perfectly content; and if it’s her absence that’s making you upset, you can stop now. Because you always say that you just want me to be happy, and I figure it’s much the same for her, isn’t it?”
    His parents looked at him in puzzlement, and his mother scowled fiercely at him then and told him not to joke about such matters.
    Paul explained very patiently that he was not joking at all. That his initial questions about whether Bonnie had flown off to the Anyplace had been answered by Bonnie herself, who was perched out on the tree branch that came near Paul’s bedroom window.
    “There’s naught but birds there,” his father said in bemusement.
    To which Paul said, “Yes. Exactly. Remember that all babies are birds before they come to live with their families? Well, some babies, when they forget and desire to fly but cannot because the windows are closed, change back to being birds and slip out up the chimney or when the front door is open. And this is not such a terrible thing; because babies like that weren’t truly ready to give up being birds in the first place, and would have been terribly miserable children and adults if they’d been forced into it.”
    “Really,” said Colleen Dear in a voice that sounded as if it was supposed to be a question, but wasn’t actually.
    “Yes. Bonnie told me so. She’s a house swallow now. She perches outside my window every day, and we talk and laugh and she tells me about what being a bird is like and I tell her what being a person is like. Honestly,” Paul added a bit sadly, “she doesn’t seem all that interested in the life of being a person. I told her I couldn’t imagine spending my life eating worms, but she told me she couldn’t imagine spending her life not flying. And I can understand that. I’d eat worms if I could fly. Wouldn’t you?”
    “I might at that,” said Paul’s father. “To fly like a bird…or The Boy…”
    “Right. That’s it. Close the door,” said Paul’s mother in a voice that sounded not angry or cutting but as vacant as an empty cookie jar—once the home of something delectable but now devoid of any hint of sweetness.
    Paul went back to his room and climbed into bed, hoping that what he had told his parents had helped matters. Instead, later that night, his father stole into his room, kissed him gently upon the forehead, and said, “Your