My wife and I loved our daughter, and so we were together. Had it not been for Sarah, I doubt we would have continued as a couple. We liked each other well enough and I was a faithful and devoted husband, but I was bored, and I am fairly certain she was as well. But that was okay. I was not bored with my family. I was not bored with my child. I was not unhappy with Meg. I was not unhappy with my job, which incidentally bored me most of the time. I was, to say it again, simply in love with my daughter, with being a father.

Accipiter striatus. One bone, a tibiotarsus in the size range of a female. This species is uncommon in this area now. Buteo jamaicensis. Quite common in the area, this species is represented by a complete tarsometatarsus. One burnt and broken buteonine pelvis. A coracoid within the range of at least three buteonine species.

Things developed, as they will, and usually when we speak of such development, “things” means bad things. And so it was.

A bad mark on Sarah’s social studies test prompted her to confess that she was not seeing all that well. The whiteboard was a blur. Pages as well. It was an easy enough problem to address and to accept. My wife had worn glasses since early childhood, so it was no surprise to discover that Sarah had her eyes.

The appointment with the eye doctor was on a Wednesday. I didn’t teach on Wednesdays, so I took her. The doctor was a pleasant young woman who hummed a lot, more and more as the examination went on. I asked her why she was humming. She didn’t answer. She had my daughter stare at a distant farmhouse.

“Is this better or worse?”

“Worse.”

“Better or worse?”

“Same.”

“Now?”

“Same.”

“How about now?”

“Same.”

She moved my daughter and took another look at her eyes through the phoroptor. To me the doctor said, “I can’t prescribe glasses because I can’t figure out what’s going on. She seems to be both near and farsighted and neither.”

“What are you telling me?”

“Nothing. I can’t tell you anything. I think she needs to see an ophthalmologist. I can’t find anything wrong with her eyes.”

That was, to say the very least, disconcerting. To say the most, it caused me to climb my interior walls like a crazed cricket. I relayed the thin substance of the appointment to my wife and we spent the rest of that night climbing our respective walls, taking turns supplying optimistic nothings.

“What do you think is going on?” she asked again.

“I made an appointment with Dr. Terence. Tomorrow at three. She’ll tell us what to do next.”

“I’ve never liked that Dr. Terence. She’s always trying to be funny.”

“She’s a kids’ doctor. Anyway, she’ll give us the name of an ophthalmologist. If we need one. Might be something simple.”

Meg nodded.