A dead sparrow once again. This time, in the mailbox.
They always appear wherever she least expects it: in the bin, between the newspaper pages, in cereal boxes. Under the pillow. In the sink. Like wicked toys from a Happy Meal. Like presents from the cat, who loves her so much and who purrs at her feet.
The other day, she opened a bag of beans to clean them, and there was one. She split an avocado in half, and she found him instead of the bone. Dark brown, rigid, curled up into a ball, with his feet crushed and without any fingers left.
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