She went to the other cages, removed the typewriter paper from each, and inspected the patterns (all aligned the same, except for one). She weighed each bird, fanned their primary feathers against the gelled light, checked for mites. When she approached each cage, the bird twitched its wings and begged for food the way it would from its parents in the wild. All except one. A male named Rothschild—after Lionel Walter, the bird collector. Naming them was a bad idea, and unscientific besides; but this one her husband had named while visiting the lab one afternoon. The bird stood off by itself, and Russell, poking at the cage, said: What’s with little Lord Rothschild? Connie repeated the name; and despite Ana’s rule, “Rothschild” stuck. The sparrow huddled now in the back of his cage—a bad sign. He wasn’t eating, his left eye was half shut. Ana took him out last and tried to feed him by hand. If he didn’t perk up in a day or two, she’d have to destroy him. She’d write a note to Connie. She’d make sure not to use his name.

An hour later, she’d fed all the birds and input the data. She locked the lab and rode the elevator downstairs. The sky tinted rose through the high lobby windows. The night guard sat listening to Haitian radio on a transistor propped on his desk.

Good morning, Armand, Ana said.

How is your early birds, mademoiselle?

Very well, thank you.

He yawned and stretched both arms out to the sides, then checked his wrist.

One more hour to go, he said.

A long night? she asked.

They’re all long.

And the baby? Ana asked.

Armand broke into a weary smile. He removed his security hat from his head, turned it upside down, and showed her the inside. A color snapshot of the baby lay inserted into the plastic lining. She was three weeks old, Armand said. Her name was Alice.

How adorable, Ana remarked.

Armand’s gums showed when he grinned. He admired the photograph a moment, then put his hat back on and patted the brim.

I keep her here on top of me, Armand explained.

Well, Ana smirked, that’s using your head.

The news came on the transistor in Creole, but neither Ana nor Armand listened. Armand once helped Ana upstairs with some cages. He thought he recognized the sparrows from Hispaniola. In Haiti they called them Moineaux des Herbes—or Zwazo Kann in Creole. Ana was certain he was talking about Grasshopper Sparrows—Ammodramus savannarum. Yet she forgave him for confusing the two; they looked awfully similar if you weren’t a birder with a life list.

Ana congratulated him again. Armand checked his watch once more.

Fifty-five minutes to go, he announced.

You stay awake on the subway, she said.

I’ll try, he offered unconvincingly.

Ana waved to him as she entered the rotating doors.