“But when?”

Josie sighed. “When … when … when their bodies stop working. When their hearts stop working.”

“Blood makes the heart work,” he said.

“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly right. People’s bodies stop working when there’s not enough blood going to the heart.” She realized this was what he was asking all along. He was unconcerned with the philosophical reasons. He just wanted the science.

“Oh,” he said, and was quiet a minute. “But where does the bird go?”

“He goes in the ground. We need to put him in the ground.”

“No, where does the bird go?”

And then she understood. He meant its consciousness. He meant its self. “You mean the bird’s … the bird’s …” She didn’t know which word to use, and she knew less about how to explain. “The bird’s soul?”

He didn’t answer, but she knew he understood.

“That’s a good question.”

He stood quietly, waiting.

“I guess … I guess the bird goes to be with God. The bird goes to heaven,” she said. If Mary hadn’t wanted Josie to make decisions about her son’s shoes, she sure wouldn’t want Josie making decisions about his faith. She had no idea what Mary believed other than that she had been raised some mild version of Episcopal. She had never heard her talk about God or religion, and they never went to church, but Tyler was attending a Christian day school, and Josie was sure they had at least mentioned heaven.

“How do you know?” he asked.

Josie pressed her fingers to her temples. Who knew what happened after death? It was a futile question, and all anyone could really do was concentrate on who and what was left. “I don’t know, Tyler. But we can bury the bird. We can give it a funeral.”

“What’s a funeral?”

“It’s when you put the bird … the body of the bird … in the ground, and you say some things about the bird, and you say some prayers.”

“Why?”

“Because … because …” Because it helps the living deal with death, she wanted to say. Instead, she took a deep breath. “It helps the bird get to heaven,” she said.

He was silent, still staring intently at the bird. The black circles of ants had grown.

“Come on. You can measure the box and the hole, and make sure everything is straight and equal.” She put her hand on his shoulder, and he shrugged it off and dropped the stick.

“It’s too sunny out here. It hurts my eyes,” he said.

“We’ll get your sunglasses,” she said. “And we can use that new shoebox for the bird.”

He stood for a minute, nudged the stick with his foot, and then sighed. “Okay,” he said. “But you have to dig the hole.”