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Mateo, and Sabina raced up beside him, her knapsack thudding noisily against her back.  “I’m glad you didn’t kill it,” she whispered up at her brother.  “I’m glad you fixed it, even though Momma doesn’t like them birds.”
    As he and Sabina crossed the street and made their way down the alley between Monterey and Cheery Lynn, he thought about the sensation of the heat traveling from his hands into the bird and was suddenly embarrassed.  He shoved them hastily into his pockets, as if hiding them would prevent him from having to think any more about the stupid bird.  Had he healed it?  Had he fixed the bird’s wing without even knowing what he was doing?
    Although he fully expected to be questioned further, the others didn’t bring up the incident again.  Not on the walk to school the following morning.  Not as they strode through a flock of pigeons on the way to the ball field Saturday afternoon.  It was as if they hadn’t given the bird’s resurrection a second thought.
    Jose, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped thinking about it.
    Which is why, when the others headed to the Dairy Freeze after shutting out the Padres in a 7-0 victory, he peeled off from the rest of the team and snuck behind the deserted bowling alley, where he knew the homeless people set up camp.  He’d been there before, in their makeshift city of cardboard boxes and weather-beaten tarps.  He knew he should probably be scared, because he’d overheard on the news about how a man was murdered there once, but he wasn’t afraid.  He’d followed a dog there many times before, and the dog always made him feel safe.
    It was the dog he was searching for today.
    As he wove between a dumpster and a makeshift lean-to, constructed of rotten pallet lumber and a sheet of torn construction plastic, he spotted Baxter.  He was curled up against a filthy blanket, the laceration on his left flank, oozing and raw – worse than it had been the week before.
    “Hey, Bax,” he called cautiously to the dog as he drew near, crouching to make himself small in case the canine should feel threatened in his weakened condition.  “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from that mean, old Doberman?  That dog’s nothing but trouble.  I hope you got a piece of him too.”
    Despite the pain of the infection, the dog’s tail beat madly against the ground at the sound of the boy’s voice.  Baxter strained, hoisting himself up on his haunches.  Typically, the pup raced to greet his friend, but today, he only managed a weak scoot in his direction.
    “It’s okay, boy,” Jose said, inching closer on his hands and knees.  “I’m here to help.  I’m just gonna give you a pat.”
    Baxter lifted his head as Jose reached out to massage his snout and scratch behind his ears.  The fur felt matted and coarse along the dog’s protruding spine, and Baxter whimpered when the boy’s hand approached the wound.
    “I brought you some scraps from the restaurant,” he murmured, “but if you want ‘em, you gotta be a good boy and let me touch it, just for a minute.”
    As if he could understand what was about to happen, the dog acquiesced and relaxed onto the ground, allowing the boy full access to the gash.
    After spending the better part of two days doubting himself, Jose remained hesitant, his palm hovering above the wound.  After feeling the warmth and watching the bird fly from his hands, he’d convinced himself that surely, it wasn’t what it seemed.  That there was no way he could have mended the bird’s broken wing simply by touching it. 
    There had been no miracle.  Just nature playing tricks.
    And yet, there he was in the homeless village, bent over the only injured soul he knew, his own curiosity compelling him forward.
    If he was correct in his assumption that the pigeon was simply a fluke, then the dog would continue to suffer and he would return to his life, full of baseball practice and bike riding and fourth grade.  However, if he was