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the bird always came directly to him afterward, which made him think perhaps the animals were supposed to be his. And lately, the bird had been staying with him more and more. He even thought she seemed a little reluctant to leave, especially tonight. He stroked the sleek, smooth feathers knitted across her back and sang gently to her, the way he used to sing to himself, or for Leah or Rebecca. He wished he had his guitar, but that, like his ID, had gone missing. It was on the tip of his mind, the whereabouts of his things. He knew he’d see them again, though, once he got everything figured out. Till then, he’d have to make do with just his voice, and the likes of the pigeon for company. It was getting dark though, and the bird seemed ready to get down to business. She straightened up out of her comfortable slump and waggled her tail feathers.
    â€œOkay,” he said to her, “I understand. And I’ll see you again, right? Tomorrow? Or maybe the next day?” The bird plucked at her own feathers with her little pink beak and shook herself again. “Okay then,” Nathan said. “See you. Safe flight! And thanks for the frog.”
    The bird hopped a few steps toward Brunswick Street before leaping into the air and spreading her wings. Nathan watched her go up over the rooftops of the café, the furniture store, the candy store and the wine boutique. He watched her wing towards Citadel Hill until he could no longer make her out against the darkening clouds.
    â€œSafe flight,” he said again, even though there was no way she could hear him at that distance. “Thanks again.”
    He stood a moment staring after her. Then he let out a deep breath, curled his hands into fists and began his nightly route. He paced the path from Spring Garden down to Grafton, turned and paced back, stopping now and again to contemplate Winston Churchill, but never for very long.
    * * *

    Henry let himself in, turning his key in the sticky lock. Now he had to pee, as well, and he hated being slowed down like that. “Come on, come on,” he said as he jiggled the key. Finally the lock gave, and he was inside. He undid his zipper with one hand while he jogged to the bathroom. He leaned against the wall as the warm urine streamed out ahead of him.
    â€œWallet, wallet, wallet,” he repeated aloud. “Where the fuck did I leave that thing?” He tried to picture it in a pant pocket or on the bureau in James and Emily’s room, but he couldn’t conjure up its image. He hadn’t felt it among his mouldering clothes on the floor of the upstairs bathroom, and he was pretty sure he didn’t have the heart to go through that again. If it came to that, he’d simply have to sponge off Johnny Parker, no two ways. “Think, think,” he said, as the stream of urine slowed to a trickle. He shook his dick off, stuffed it back in his jeans and zipped up carefully. The last thing he needed was a commando-meets-zipper incident. That’d really put a damper on his night. Damper, he thought. The wallet is on the floor in the living room in front of the woodstove. He’d passed out there last night, and remembered taking the wallet out of his pocket before he drifted off. It had been an uncomfortable lump between his ass and the floor. His smokes were probably there, too, come to think of it.
    Sure enough, they were. He grabbed them up, stuffed them in his pocket, remembered his keys, and slammed out the door again.
    The bird caught him by surprise, swooped down almost taking his head off. “Fuck is that?” he shouted as it turned and flew up to the second floor window next door. “Jesus bird,” he sputtered nonsensically. “Christ could have killed me.” He scowled up at it as it squeezed in the half-open window. “Fucking pigeon,” he said. “Fucking going in through the window! The hell? Fuck.” His heart was pounding like a snare drum in his