With her eyes half-closed, Soon tries to extract the lesson of the story. Does he mean the two of them are like dyed birds? But now Old Man is talking about another kind of bird: the ones that refused to take part in the game. They were hardly mentioned in the writeup of results, but there were some specimens—not many, but some!—that were discarded as useless. I had to find the information in the article’s footnotes, so unimportant were these rebels considered! But why were they useless?, asks Soon. Because when they were disguised they died of sadness, they refused to eat or fly, they didn’t even try to fake it! They didn’t want to be in any group, and if they were forced to, they kept apart, even if it meant rejection. Surviving with a disguise, for those birds, meant a slow death; that’s why they chose to speed up their deaths, without any trickery.

Old Man always has a backpack with him. He opens it to show Soon what it holds: the binoculars, his bird books, clippings from magazines and newspapers, a pencil case—he likes pencils, not pens—the towel for sitting on the grass, a notebook, his cellphone and headphones. It’s an old backpack, light green, with tattered brown straps; it’s like what a soldier would carry, or an explorer. Soon’s backpack is brand-name, with bright colors and zippers, waterproof. Does Old Man expect her to show him what’s inside hers, too? The thought makes her ashamed, she realizes how childish everything she keeps in it is—if only she at least had a pack of tobacco, a lighter, or a bracelet from a nightclub. Not even her cellphone—she’s not allowed to take it to school with her—not even that. Just text books, a binder with florescent dividers, also a pencil case—though hers holds gel pens of every color—shreds of foil, napkins, sunflower seed shells. Soon is messy, while Old Man is methodical and organized. Would you like to keep the towel?, he offers, and she shakes her head hard. No, no, I’d lose it, she says. But didn’t they already have this conversation? Old Man repeats himself, the words mix together, it’s all confused, she’s lost count of the days.