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don’t know what came over me, but I started picking them up. I pulled the bottom of my teeshirt out and away from my belly and put the birds in the net it formed. With my shirt full of dead sparrows I headed back toward the house. I ducked behind a bush when I saw Martin coming my way. He walked past me and on toward the pond. He was carrying his BB rifle. I ran home and managed to sneak up to my room without being seen. I dumped the birds onto my bed and counted them. Thirteen. I picked up one of the sparrows and sat silently, bouncing it on my fingers. I dropped the bird on my bed and went to the hall closet. I pulled down a hatbox and went back into my room and put the sparrows in it. I put the top on the box and slid it under my bed. I stretched out across the bed and imagined the lives of those birds passing up through the box spring and the mattress and into me.
    Later, I walked over to the old school building and saw Virgil Wallace. He was sitting with his back against the pole of a basketball goal which no longer had a hoop. Virgil Wallace was about eighteen and real long and skinny. One of his legs was bent and the other was straight out. He was wearing one bright red sock and one bright yellow one. His hand was in his lap and he tossed his head back and looked up at the sky. I moved toward him. I noticed the ringworm on his head.
    â€œVirgil?” I said. I was standing off to his side and slightly behind him.
    He didn’t notice me.
    I walked around and stood right in front of him and I looked at the hand that was in his lap. He was holding the head of his penis in his hand and it was covered with a milky substance. “Virgil?”
    He looked at me. His eyes were half-closed.
    â€œCan I ask you a question?”
    He nodded.
    â€œWhy do you pull on yourself?”
    He held up his hand dripping with the stuff. “For this here.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    He looked at the stuff on his hand and then, without looking at me, he said, “Life.” He laughed out loud. “Life,” he repeated, looking up at me, the corners of his mouth curled slightly up. He pushed his messy hand toward me: an offer.
    I ran all the way home. When I walked into my bedroom, Martin was pacing around, sniffing.
    â€œCome in here,” he said. “Tell me if you smell something.”
    I inhaled deeply. “No,” I lied to him.
    â€œYou didn’t even breathe.”
    â€œI did, too. I just don’t smell anything. Maybe it’s your lip.”
    Martin shook his head and left the room.
    I pulled the hatbox from beneath my bed and looked inside at my birds. There were a few maggots moving around. I sneaked the box down into the garage and hid it behind a couple of tires in the corner.
    So, I’m sitting in the living room and Thelma is beside me on the sofa and Peter’s on the floor with his toy truck, even though it’s past his bedtime, and neither of them has got much to say to me. The doorbell rings and I get up and let David in.
    â€œUncle David,” says Peter, running to David.
    David picks Peter up and says, “How you doing, pal?” David looks at Thelma. “Hi, Thelma.”
    â€œHello, David.” Thelma’s voice sounds far off and she barely looks at him.
    â€œI’ll get you a beer,” I says and I go into the kitchen and come back with two beers. “So, who won?”
    â€œWe did, eight-one.”
    We sit down in front of the television and watch the late news.
    â€œI was thinking,” says David. “Maybe you should go to the country for a while. That’s what I’d do if I had a vacation.”
    Thelma’s and Peter’s eyes turn on me. “Look,” I says, “it’s time for the sports.”
    On the television the fella runs off some scores and mentions cliff-diving in Mexico and then he says, “A representative of the Mariners said today that the team will play the New York Yankees tomorrow