A strange fluttering noise rouses the boy shrouded in a mist of sleep. Confused and curious, but too ill to leave his bed, he slowly opens his eyes. Lodged between his bedroom window and the screen, a small gray bird flaps its wings frantically. He watches, hoping the bird will find a way to free itself.

He imagines rising from the bed and placing his face next to the screen. “Shoo,” he whispers. The bird shifts its head one way and then the other, peering at him through black-dot eyes. His voice seems to calm the bird. That surprises him. “You need to go,” he says quietly. The bird shakes itself, smoothing its ruffled feathers.

The boy pictures himself loosening the clips attaching the screen to the window frame. The bird’s tiny clawed feet hold the mesh as though to a perch. “What’s in here that you want?” he asks. The bird chirps. The boy slowly moves close enough to touch the bird. It allows the boy to stroke its back. “You must be someone’s pet,” he says.

The bird flies around his bedroom before landing on a picture the boy keeps on his desk. It’s a photograph of himself and his grandmother on his tenth birthday. Together, they blow out the candles on his cake, their cheeks puffed, hands clasped. On Saturday mornings, she would make him tea and cinnamon toast. She often attended his Little League games, though she had no interest in baseball. He recalls her spiral laugh, which always provoked a laugh in response. “Time for you to go,” he hears her say as his head sinks into the pillow. The bird lands beside him. It’s good to have the bird near.

“Everyone has to go,” he hears his grandmother say, her voice but a breeze. “But I’ll come see you.”

“I want to believe that.”

“Hush, now. You need to rest,” she tells him.

He is more tired than he’s ever felt before. Her hand squeezes his. He watches the bird land on the sill before taking flight out his window. In the blink of an eye, he follows.