“It looks like one of the ones we found yesterday, with the buildings lit up, and the Gilded West right out in the middle. But the building that Theo asked about, that you knew the name of, Frances—”

“The Multifoods Building.”

“Right. That one wasn’t there.” She stopped.

We waited.

“Don’t you see!? It’s now, but with the buildings lit up.”

“Okay,” said Theo. I thought so, too.

“Why us?” Frances asked.

“Because,” said Sher, thoroughly exasperated, “she said ‘your friend.’ She didn’t say which friend.”

“And you thought maybe we’d be able to tell, when we heard it?”

“I guess if I did, I was wrong. Blast it root and bough.”

Across town, from the northward road, we heard the sound of a rough-running engine. “Huh,” said Sher. “Company.”

“That’s odd,” I said.

“You just haven’t noticed before. The neighbors stop by to swap favors or pass news along. That sounds like Skip Olsen’s truck.”

“Maybe the wind was up last night,” I said. “It was a great night for dreaming.”

“You had one last night?” Sher asked intently.

“A whole raft of them. Terrible ones. There was a lot of hurrying in mine, too.”

Across the circle, two people were walking toward us. One of them was Josh; the other was a white-haired man ten years older, in a straw cowboy hat. He carried something in one hand. “Sparrow!” Josh called when he was in hollering distance. “Meet Skip Olsen!”

By this time they were at the porch rail. Olsen stuck out a veiny brown hand; I extended mine, took his, and shook it. It still required an effort. Olsen was smiling. “I’d never heard of you,” he said, “but this was sent sort of in care of the town, so I figured if I drove by and asked, they’d all know you. Damnedest bunch for knowing everybody else’s business.” Olsen laughed, and Josh laughed. I reached out and took the package Olsen held out to me.

It was a scuffed white cardboard box, like a gift box, not quite as long as my forearm and a little less than half as thick. It was tied closed with brown twine. Printed on it in ballpoint pen was:

Sparrow

c/o the zoo

Apple Valley

There was, of course, no return address.

Josh took Olsen into the house for tea. I stared at the box. It didn’t weigh much.

“Don’t open it,” Frances said roughly.

“Why not?”

“Sparrow, don’t be an idiot. Don’t open it.”

But I’d already pulled the twine off. I lifted the lid.

Like all gift boxes, it had a piece of tissue paper in it. I folded that back. Inside was a thick tail of hair, silver-blond, tied off with a thin black velvet ribbon. One end of the tail was uneven; the other was straight and freshly cut. That end had been dipped about three inches deep in something that there was no use believing was anything but blood.

I didn’t drop the box, because it weighed hardly anything. I moved very carefully to the top step and sat down, still with the box between my hands, still staring at the contents.