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out of two. And for the first time in their lives, as far as she could remember, they struggled to
     push her away.
    T he point being that squabs beat hens no matter what, and at two dollars and fifteen cents a dozen, the Owen children are sure to turn a
     fancy profit. Or such is Jackie’s notion, though Gimp feels compelled to point out that it’s no work for a get-rich-quick
     kind of person. Which causes Jackie to seize her little brother by his shirt collar and dare him to back out now. But Gimp
     just wants to be sure, a fair-enough request, so Jackie takes him through her calculations once more: they buy twelve breeding
     pairs today, they’ll have six hundred birds within eight months. Gimp reminds Jackie that they’ll need a supply of buckwheat.
     Jackie reminds Gimp that squabs prefer barley during the molting season. And then there’s the cost of two large cages to transport
     the birds home.
    They fall silent when a sudden spasm of darkness turns the morning into night. They hear only the churning of the train’s
     wheels and the murmuring voices of passengers in nearby seats.
    “What’s happened?”
    “We’re in a tunnel, Gimp.”
    Their hands meet, clasp in the dark, the grip of clammy fingers still comforting to them, though they are almost too old for
     this contact—old enough, after all, to make a real-life investment. Their business venture, the gist of which they’ve kept
     to themselves for the simple reason that neither parent has asked them what, precisely, they’ve been up to, will be common
     knowledge soon enough, once the twenty-four birds are flashing and tumbling across their flying pen.
    The children don’t think it at all unusual that neither parent has inquired about the exact purpose of the huge pen they’ve
     built in the backyard. To them, life at home is like this ride through the tunnel, their privacy intensified by a surrounding
     darkness. Not that they mind. They prefer to be left alone. Besides, their parents have never found reason to blame them for
     anything, and while the children don’t exactly think of themselves as perfect, they know they can do no wrong in their parents’
     eyes. Even this trip to the city will be forgiven, in light of the practical motive: twelve white-fleshed, fertile pairs of
     Plymouth Rock homers.
    They are still holding hands when they follow the other passengers across the gap separating the train from the platform.
     The crowd is not the early-commuter throng; they are noontime tourists and travelers, and instead of surging toward the gate
     they trickle, carrying the young Owens along their surface, two fallen leaves with stems entwined.
    And then, nearly as quickly as the tunnel had engulfed daylight, the small group disperses, leaving the children alone in
     the lower concourse of the station, where they have been once before, on a trip to their father’s office. That was years ago,
     and the only memory of the visit they retain is of the company’s doorman letting them play with the elevator controls. Now,
     on their own in the city, having skipped out on their school fair, they are too confused by the many possible directions to
     be terrified. But terror soon comes to them—delicious, illuminating terror—when they see an old man shuffling along a vaulted
     corridor, a bent, shrouded figure, and though motion seems difficult for him, he manages to increase his pace as he approaches.
     He reeks of urine, and the newspapers he has wrapped around his feet crunch softly as he walks. The children stand still,
     both of them enjoying the strange luxury of fear even as they pray silently that this ghost will pass by and keep walking
     down the platform and into the endless darkness.
    He drags himself to a halt. They can see the perspiration glistening inside his wrinkles. His voice, magically amplified,
     startles them with its volume and clarity. “What’s that?
Ark!
Now take a penny, each of you,
ark!
Give me your hands, come on