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Brooke. He pulled an edge of meat
     from one of the bundles and cut its corner loose with the tip of the curving
     knife.
    The boy nodded and Brooke cut him a piece too.
     
    “We’re killing time anyway,” said Brooke, “and trying to keep
     ourselves moving. We might as well head toward him, and see what he might be able to
     bring to bear on the situation.”
    Sugar was bent at the waist, a hand on either knee, gulping air and
     holding his eyelids shut while Brooke went on.
    “And maybe he knows something about the way the boy looks or where he
     might have come from, something to help us along. It seems as good a plan as
     any.”
    The convulsions took Sugar again and he loosed another smatter of acid
     and mucous onto the slick dirt before him.
    “I don’t care,” Sugar managed. “Just leave me.”
    “We’re going,” said Brooke, standing at the boy who was stillcrouched and fingering the dirt. “We’re going to our friend and
     he’ll tell us all about you.”
    “Okay,” said the boy. Then, “What’s wrong with him ?” gesturing at
     Sugar.
    “Stomach,” said Brooke. “I don’t know. Maybe the meat. Or it’s just early
     and he’s unsettled.”
    The sun was nearly raised and the woods were coming to bloom around them.
     A handful of birds in the trees just above were mocking the boy or mourning their
     dead or crying out for something, there was no knowing what. The boy threw a small
     rock to scatter them, but only one lifted before settling back as it had been.
    “Don’t,” said Sugar. “It’s annoying.”
    He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and kicked some of the dust at his
     feet onto the mucous and stomach acid he’d abandoned there.
    “You insist you have no name ?” said Sugar.
    The boy shrugged, shook his head.
    “Then we’ll call you Bird,” said Sugar.
    “I don’t like it,” said the boy.
    “It suits him,” said Brooke, nodding to Sugar.
    “But I don’t like it,” said the boy.
    “Bird for now,” said Brooke.
    “Bird until we find out something different,” said Sugar.
    “So we’re going ?” said Brooke.
    “We’ll go,” said Sugar.
    They left.
    They had little to carry, the bundles of decaying meat and a few stained
     blankets. They moved quickly and quietly and saw little else throughout the day,
     other than birds and a few salamanders. Bird could swear the birds
     were following them, but Sugar assured him it was only his conscience, his
     self-involvement.
    “You’re imagining what’s happening out there’s got anything to do with
     you,” said Sugar. “It doesn’t.”
    “But if someone hurt Brooke you’d chase them down,” said Bird.
     “Because.”
    “I would,” said Sugar.
    “So what’s to say the birds aren’t doing that ?”
    “Even if they are, it’s still got nothing to do with you really. It’s out
     of your hands, and they’re no risk to you.”
    “But I know why they’re doing it, and it’s me is why they’re doing
     it.”
    “You put your hand in a lake, withdraw it, and the surface moves for a
     bit,” said Sugar, “it snaps back into place or it ripples on and on. Your
     involvement ends the moment your hand leaves the water.”
     
    “We’re here,” said Brooke.
    It looked no different from any other patch of wood. The boy was not even
     sure in which direction he should be looking.
    “You take Bird,” said Brooke.
    Sugar placed his hand on the boy.
    “After you,” said Sugar.
    “What do I do ?”
    “Walk,” said Sugar.
    “What’s Brooke going to do ?”
    “Wait,” said Brooke.

    As they walked, the woods seemed to bruise. It was
     nearly, suddenly, evening.
    “How far is it ?” said Bird.
    “Not far,” said Sugar.
    They were headed toward nothing in particular, it seemed to Bird. Only
     darkness. Beneath their feet, small stones in the dirt squeaked as they were pressed
     together. Every now and then one would pop beneath Sugar’s heel, but he did not seem
     to notice.
    Bird’s toe