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her head had stopped.

CHAPTER NINE
{THOMAS}
    Thomas was back in his apartment, sitting on the couch. He was thinking about the afternoon, wondering if the fighter had recognized him from that first night at Gallagher's, wondering about the milkman's boy.
    He saw that Pop was up and on his way out. Thomas was sorry he'd come upstairs. The rest of them had still been there, sitting in the kitchen, waiting for Bird and Mrs. Mallon, and he could have stayed. But somehow it seemed not right.
    It was getting dark now. He'd light the lamp, he thought, and write a little, but then he heard Mrs. Mallon calling from the landing.
    He opened the door quickly and looked down at her. There was as much blood on her skirt as there had been on the milkman. “Have you seen Bird?” she asked.
    He shook his head and reached back to pull his jacket off the hook. “I'll look for her.”
    “She's had a hard time this afternoon, that girl of mine,” Mrs. Mallon said, shaking her head.
    “She'll be somewhere along Water Street near the bridge,” he said, surprised he knew that, but sure about it. “I'll find her.”
    “I'd be grateful,” Mrs. Mallon said. “I'll change my clothes, and if you're not back we'll all—”
    “You don't have to do that,” he said. “I'll find her. I know I will.”
    He flew down the stairs and out the door, crossing to the bridge side of the street. The tower loomed in front of him, a gigantic shadow against the sky.
    She was leaning against the railing at the water. Her shirtwaist was covered in blood, her skirt torn. “Bird,” he called, but it was as if she didn't see him.
    He went toward her, seeing her hair out of its clips, down her back in thick curls. He caught up to her and reached out, holding her arms, realizing she was as tall as he was, maybe even a little taller. Her face was swollen, her eyes filled with tears.
    She shook her head, so he leaned against the railing next to her, watching the water lap against the wooden pilings. Across the river he could see the unfinished tower with its jagged top, almost like a huge broken tooth.
    And at last he said, “Was it the milkman's boy? Was that it?”
    She wiped her face on her sleeve. “I used to cut up bitsof leaves and stems with Mama, and mix them with honey for the neighbors' sore throats.” Her hands were clenched on the railing. She turned her head to face him. “The first time I went with Mama I read a story to a little girl sick in bed.”
    He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. He wanted to tell her he'd started to write a story about her. He had even called her Eldrida to make her smile. But he wasn't sure she'd want to hear any of that.
    “I thought it would be babies, you know?” She reached for a handkerchief in her sleeve. “And helping people. But not like this. Not anything like this. I thought it would be so different.”
    She straightened her shoulders, and neither of them said anything after that.
    They stayed there for a while watching the boats, and the water, and the bridge that might never be finished.
    Everything was impossible: Bird and her taking care of people, and even Pop's drinking. And what about what Thomas wanted? That was the most impossible of all.



CHAPTER TEN
{BIRD}
    It was Wednesday morning, the first day of eighth grade, and her last year of school. Mama and Annie were at the kitchen table with her. Hughie was still a huge lump under the covers in his bed in the corner, and Da wouldn't come off the night shift for another hour.
    Annie slopped a great spoonful of oatmeal into Bird's bowl.
    Bird examined it carefully. “Lumps.”
    “Didn't I just do you the favor of rolling up your hair?” Annie asked, bumping the back of Bird's head with her elbow.
    “Didn't I give you half of the money Mrs. Daley paid me for sweeping down the stairs for it?”
    Mama leaned over, a loop of her hair over her forehead. “In the Old Country we'd have been grateful for lumps.”
    Bird and Annie exchanged a look.