Page 26 of Wrong Mail

He lifts the cage a little. "It's a canary. A hen, so she won't sing much, which the man at the Bellevue pet store seemed to think was a defect. I thought it was a mercy. You said you kept them, so." He lifts the cage another inch, like that settles it.

I didn’t say I kept them.

The thought goes through me.

Then it hits the same wall everything else does. I say a great many things. I lose a great many of them. I've spent two years learning that the gap in the middle is where I live now.

Did I say it? On his step, with David walking up the road?

I don't think I did.

But I can't be sure. That's the whole trouble. I never am.

"It's just my way of saying thank you," he adds, easily, because I've said nothing for slightly too long. "For returning my mail."

What am I going to do? Tell him he's wrong? On what evidence?

"Henry," I say. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know." He's looking at the cage instead of at me. "But it was kind of you. Walking it over to me, when you could have dropped it back in the box and never had to look me in the eye. I've not had a great deal of kindness lately. I've barely been in the house a week, and the only other person who's knocked on my door wanted to know what I paid for it." He shrugs. "So. A bird."

He sets the cage down on the driveway by the gatepost and steps back with his hands up. As if he'd rather not be seen holding the thing at all. "Take it or don't. I'd only feel stupid taking her home."

She's beautiful. Of course she is. Yellow going to soft orange at the head, gripping the perch, tilting to look at me with one bright bead of an eye.

I open the gate.

Luna comes out of the house at a flat sprint, all noise and no threat, and puts her front paws up on him.

"Whoa," Henry says, lifting a knee to keep her off. "Down."

I reach for her collar. "I'm so sorry. She gets excited. She doesn't usually take to people this quickly."

But she's already down. She drops instantly and looks up at him, her whole tail going, before my hand gets anywhere near her.

Henry leans down, rubs the top of her head twice, and smiles.

"No, my fault. The knee’s a reflex. My sister had one."

"It's okay. It's fine.”

It is fine. It's a perfectly fine thing to have happen. But Luna has never once sat for anyone on the first ask. Not for David. Not for me. And here she is, sitting by his feet, her whole body going, gazing up at him like she's known him her whole life.

I turn it over once, and I put it down, because the alternative is to stand at my gate being frightened of a neighbor who has brought me a canary.

"Is David around?" Henry asks.

"Work. He's at the hospital until seven or so."

"Ah." He looks down at the cage. "Do you want a hand getting her in with the rest of them? They can be funny about a new one."

"They can be vicious about a new one."

I should say no. I've known him for less than five minutes. David’s at the hospital, and I know exactly what Julia would say about all of this.

"Sure," I hear myself say. "Okay."

At the aviary, the birds are already restless.