Where the Lost Things Are Read Free Page B

beside us. He was the size of a private plane, with wide wings, a broad back and a stubby neck. He sat back on what passed for haunches and lowered his head so that Chandler could blow smoke into the nostrils of the great beak.
    â€œThese guys are smart,” said Chandler. “You gas them up with smoke and they’ll do what you tell them—for a while.”
    â€œHhhhmmmm,” said Jack. “What if you were to tell him to fly me over to that pile of pills in the distance, so I can score some bluegene?”
    â€œWhy not?” said Chandler. “Seeing as how you gave me this Bugler. And the matches too.”
    â€œGood deal,” said Jack.
    â€œOnce you have your bluegene pill, you’ll come back and help with the stacking and sorting, right?” said Chandler. “We’re always falling behind.”
    â€œSure,” said Jack. “As you say, we’re stuck here forever, and there’s nothing else to do, and life sucks. And all this stuff might come in handy someday.”
    â€œAre you nuts?” I asked Jack in a whisper.
    â€œShut up,” he murmured. “Do what I do.”
    Chandler blew more smoke into the great crow’s nostrils and he chirped at the crow from the back of his throat. “Get on now,” he told us.
    Jack perched on the crow’s neck like he was mounting a dragon. The women and I nestled into the dark feathers in the middle of the crow’s back. The great wings beat the air and we rose, skimming along the underside of the peachy clouds of the alsoverse.
    Below us, the mournful missing persons were sorting and stacking: coins and pen-tops and contact lenses, hairpins and hats, sausages, credit cards, batteries, screwdrivers—
    â€œHey!” I yelled, “There’s my hearing aid!” It lay atop a stack of such devices, all types and sizes, like an exhibit at a medical museum. Fairly unpleasant to see, some of them waxy and carrying that disgusting geezer vibe. At Jack’s bidding, the gigantic crow swooped down and circled so that I could snatch my hearing aid from the pile. Compared to my present size the thing was, hell, the size of an orange crate. I managed to tuck it into the crow’s plumage. Maybe I could jigger our relative sizes if and when we got back home.
    Jack looked back from his perch on the crow’s neck and grinned.
    â€œI want a guitar pick,” called Amara. “For a souvenir.”
    No sooner said than done. The crow circled back to near where we’d started, and the boogie-board-sized plastic pick was soon wedged among the feathers, nestled beside my cumbersome hearing aid.
    â€œAre you steering this bird?” I called to Jack, raising my voice against the wind.
    â€œYeah, baby!” he exulted. “Remember back at Journey’s End, when I got my knees replaced?”
    â€œSure I do,” I said, though I didn’t.
    He slapped his thigh. “I can guide this bird with my knees, like a Sioux warrior on an Indian pony. Titanium!”
    â€œI want my dangly gold earring,” said Darly. “I can see the pile over there!”
    â€œHold your water, ma’am,” said Jack, putting on a cowboy accent. “I want me a giant bluegene pill.” He dug his titanium knees into the crow’s neck, and off we soared toward the bumpy pastel peak of pills.
    â€œIt should have been my turn right now,” said Darly sinking into a sulk.
    â€œHush up and help,” said Amara, as we approached the mountain of pills. The sorters had been slacking here, and the pills were all colors. Guided by Jack, the crow circled until Amara spotted the right one. The bluegene pill was hard to snatch, being the size of a Christmas turkey, but soon it was stored beside my big hearing aid and the oversized guitar pick. And now we buzzed the earring pile.
    â€œThere it is!” cried Darly. “That cluster of shiny sticks on top.” She leaned out, reaching for