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walked away from the bird, but stopped halfway to the door and turned toward it. “Miss you,” he said.
    And then Story heard the bird squawk, “Miss you.”



FOUR
    F or the first time in a long while, Story Easton knew other people more miserable than herself. She didn’t know where all of the sadness came from, but she knew about unhappy families. Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Still crouching beneath the desk, Story was alone now, but the mother and boy’s grief felt like another, still-breathing person in the room. Story got out from her hiding spot and wondered if she should formally introduce herself to the bird, but when she looked at him, all she saw was a small but colorful parrot, preparing to be either sweet or belligerent.
    “Fuck it all!” the bird shrieked as Story walked by. Belligerent. But this time, she forgave him.
    Part of Story wanted to run out of that house and forget what she’d seen and heard, but another part of her, the authentic part that didn’t want to fail, was drawn to these strangers.
    After tiptoeing into the hallway, she made her way toward light—through the kitchen, where she glided her hand over cool granite countertops, through an unused family room, where life used to happen, and finally, to the base of the stairway that led upstairs, where she could hear them talking.
    As Story climbed the steps, the mother, upstairs, surrendered a battle she couldn’t win and, already tired, said, “Ready?”
    The boy nodded as his mother reached for the book. By now, they were both snuggled up in their usual spots, and Story, having climbed the steps, was out in the hallway, barely out of sight. The boy clutched his umbrella and twirled it as his mother began.
    “Once Upon A Moonflower: A Fairy Tale (or A Tale of a Fairy).” And then she added, “Written by Martin Baxter.”
    Of course, the mother and boy didn’t know Martin Baxter, but to her surprise, Story did. By a strange coincidence, she’d spent the night before at his house, and had seen how sad and empty his pale blue eyes looked in the Phoenix moonlight.
    After opening the book, the mother read the disclaimer on the first page. “Due to its graphic (real) and cerebral (smart) nature, this story is not recommended for small children, unless they are really, really brave.” And then, as she always did, she read the dedication. “For my daughter Hope, the project I’m most proud of.”
    Story remembered the little blonde girl on Martin Baxter’s shoulders, and then wondered what it would sound like for her own mother to say the word proud in reference to her.
    After reading the introduction, Claire began the story. “Once upon a time, there was a girl named Hope, who lived in the heart of the rainforest.”
    The mother went on to read about Hope, lost in the dark jungle, embarking on a quest to find the magic treasure box hidden deep in the forest, but she didn’t get far before the boy hung his head and said, “It’s not gonna happen, is it?” He frowned. “He said when I turned nine, I’d be old enough, and when I was old enough, we’d go find the magic . . .” He didn’t bother with the logistics. “ Together .”
    His birthday is Friday , thought Story. He’s supposed to find the magic treasure box on his birthday .
    His mother searched for the right answer, but it never came. “Honey, Dad meant well, but it’s only a book, and Hope is only a—”
    “Fuck Hope!” the boy cried.
    “Cooper David Payne!” his mother scolded. “You’re not allowed to say that word!”
    “Fuck fairies then!”
    Exhausted, the mother placed her hand on her son’s leg, warm and sprouting small, soft hairs. “You’re not allowed to say the ‘F’ word, Coop.”
    For just a moment, he stared up at her with an honest inquiry. “Fairies?”
    And then the stress came crashing down on her as she pounded her clenched fists into her son’s twin bed. “Fuck it all! Fuck is