My babies, my babies, she cried, and even the older policeman seemed embarrassed when he soothed her: don’t worry, ma’am, they were just talking. But the other policeman, the younger one, was much more severe, his eyes were like steel—like two steel marbles—and his lips very thin and tense, and he said: talking to children is not permitted, do you understand me, sir? He also asked why Old Man had those binoculars with him, what he was planning to look at. Birds, said Old Man. Birds!, repeated the policeman contemptuously. We don’t want to see you here ever again, not you and not your binoculars, the next time we’ll have to bring you in for questioning. Questioning?, Old Man asked, intrigued. He could answer those questions now, no problem, it was no trouble if it would save them time and make their job easier, but they must have taken his offer as a provocation. The younger cop, furious, stepped up to Old Man threateningly and said: did you not understand me, sir, or are you playing dumb? The other cop, the older one, tried to calm him down and told him to leave Old Man alone. He’s a fruitcake, poor guy, can’t you see that?, he said. This hurt Old Man much more than the scolding: that this cop, who was clearly nicer and more understanding than the other, classified him as a fruitcake. But it hurt even more to learn—as he did later—that it was his neighbor who had called the police, the neighbor who had seen him from across the street, his neighbor whom he’d known for years and said hello to and wished a merry Christmas, whom he helped with her bags when she was overloaded, to whom he’d given a wooden birdhouse as a gift, and who he’d always thought liked him, though from that day onward he knew she didn’t, how disappointing!

The rat is prowling serenely around the foot of the tree when Soon slips through the hole in the shrubs. It lifts its head and looks at her, unfazed, until she screams, and then—only then—it scurries away, though listlessly. Soon’s scream was more from surprise than disgust. The rat wasn’t totally ugly; it looked kind of cute when it turned its head, with its little nose trembling and its dazed and myopic eyes. Even so, she wouldn’t like for it to come back. She’s always heard that rats spread disease, and that when they’re cornered, they turn aggressive and jump up to bite your face. Soon would not like to be bitten in the face. She already looks ugly enough, and can’t afford to be disfigured by a rat bite. It occurs to her that she could buy poison and put it in the hideout. But when she suggests this to Old Man, he starts waving his arms wildly, aghast. Absolutely not!, he says. Poison could get eaten by dogs, by birds, any little animal that comes by. Even just thinking about the rats: does she really want to give them such a horrible death? They’re no threat, they run away when someone approaches them! She immediately feels ashamed, and pretends she’d only said it as a joke. Old Man repeats, very seriously: that’s right, no poison here. Poison is forbidden! It’s forbidden even to think about poison!