Raymond had had a ghost. It made total literary sense. In the yard, as he watered his camellias, a flutter of dark wings passed over his head. He felt shadows moving swiftly over him like a hundred miniature screeching warplanes. He calmly stood his ground. No longer would he question casual brushes with the supernatural; he would stay and he would watch.

The flying pests convened in a black cluster midair, squawking plans to swarm upon some rendezvous spot. They swooped down to the Parks’ backyard, gathering at the only thing that had escaped the blast—that hideous blue couch. When the flurry of wings died down, Raymond saw them for what they were—the feral green parrots he’d heard so much about. The lore had them pegged as wisecracking macaws who blew from perch to snazzy perch. But they were just basic little birds, mere budgerigars if not for the crimson patches on their foreheads. Parvenus of the parrot world! They covered the raggedy couch in a shroud of pea green and immediately pecked and scratched, as if servicing an itchy rhinoceros. Those nicks and tears—they’d been the work of these winged devils! Their little yellow beaks emerged from the cushions white with fluff. Some bit off more than they could chew and the parts they couldn’t take with them fell like tired snow onto the ground. Raymond finally understood birdwatching.

“Ray,” came Rosemary’s voice.

Raymond turned around and read the terror in her eyes. “There’s a phone call for you,” she said.

In addition to being weaned off “Mr. van der Holt,” the girls had been trained to stonewall unimportant calls. Rosemary did not have to say anything else. Raymond stumbled in place, then started back indoors, pointing absently at the birds to divert her eyes from his anxious face.

She watched him vanish inside the house and heard him ram his foot against the base of the stairs, stifle a cry, recompose himself, and pick up the receiver.

“Good evening, nurse.”