Polly and Edmund waited in the back of the Volvo. Papa reappeared and tossed some books and their bags and jackets through the window. He said they’d have to amuse themselves for a few minutes, and he headed back to the house, stooped and intent. Two of the books he’d thrown in were albums. One showed kurgans and mounds in Russia, where Papa had been on several digs. His strong, upright handwriting, different from Dee’s because he wasn’t American, surrounded the snapshots. The other album showed objects, gold birds and bright felt blankets, mummies and horse skeletons. The third book was The Family of Man. Polly and Edmund stared hardest at the section about war and birth, but eventually they each stuck a head out an open window, looking straight up at leaves and clouds, a strange whirlwind of birds that stayed within a pattern for long minutes.

The crunching sound of Papa approaching. He stopped at Polly’s side. “It’ll be a bit longer.”

“Why are they doing that?”

Papa looked up at the birds. Polly brought her head back inside the car, and only saw his dangling hands, strong but old with a gold ring, dark trouser pants and a nice white shirt.

“They’re starlings, and they’re talking about a storm,” he said. He circled the car and looked down at Edmund, who was also gaping at the birds. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“She’ll be better after some sleep.”

Edmund didn’t answer, probably because he didn’t think this was true.

Dee normally took her time with coffee, with dressing, with getting her body to move, but today she was fiddling with earrings when she hobbled to the car, and her hair was wet, in a ponytail like a girl’s. Papa took off while her door was still open. From the back seat, Polly swatted the half-gray ponytail while Dee kept turning the radio louder to annoy Papa. She was fond of all the Detroit girl bands and she wanted Polly to dress in shorter skirts and bright colors, and fought with Jane about the necessity of leotards.