Dead quiet means predator approaching.

“Hey, Rico. It’s me, Gwen. Remember?”

She kept up a foolish banter as she walked into the family room. From the farthest corner of his cage, Rico was taking her measure with what Gwen interpreted as hostile indifference. She wondered if hostility and indifference could coexist in a parrot—or in anyone, for that matter. She had invaded Rico’s space, his home. Perhaps he was formulating a plan to extend and sustain the mood as long as possible. Small black pupils stared. Rings of white around the black. A white mask was fitted to perfection around the eyes and above the beak. Chain-mail hood of soft grey. She had not attempted to smooth a finger over those intricately layered feathers. He will allow you to pet his head, but give him time—don’t try right away. He’ll learn soon enough that you are his source of food.

He tried to press himself against the back corner, but he was already at the far end of the perch. His perch—one of several in the large cage—was thick, made of braided rope. In the short time since Gwen’s morning visit, pellets and seeds had been scattered in a wide crescent over the tiled floor.

“Beady,” she said. “Your eyes are beady.” She, too, could be hostile—or indifferent. “And you’ve made another mess for me to clean up.” This observation was unhelpful; he turned his back. She knew he was watching.

Vision is his strongest sense.

He began to examine every angle of the room except the one where she stood, but she knew he could see her. She went to the kitchen to get the broom.

This was her third day, sixth visit. Duties included preparing and providing food, as well as supplying him with fresh water. Visits were twice a day, every day. Her most important task was to converse with the parrot one full hour every morning and a second in the late afternoon. Rico needed to socialize. Rico needed flock.

He had not yet spoken. He’d created a variety of sounds—certainly screeching when she approached the house—but no utterance had come close to resembling a human word. Cecilia Grand had told Gwen over the phone that he’d be talking before the end of visit one.

Cecilia, a stranger to Gwen, had failed to provide hands-on orientation, a distinct disadvantage. An emergency had come up; details were vague. Cecilia and her husband had a daughter in LA who was undergoing a crisis, and they were compelled to depart a week earlier than intended. That’s what Gwen was told when she’d received a frantic phone call. The house key would be stashed under an upturned wheelbarrow at the side of the garage. The Grands had no choice but to leave for the airport before Gwen could get to the house to meet them or the parrot.

When Gwen had first replied to the ad by phone, she was told that she would be meeting the parrot and shown what to do. When the well-intentioned plan fell through, Cecilia, in emergency mode, had written instructions on both sides of a piece of foolscap and fastened the sheet to the fridge door with a magnet. Every detail of care was squeezed onto those two pages. A separate sheet on the kitchen counter contained a recipe called Rico’s Chop. Gwen had never heard of a parrot’s chop, but she was to prepare said chop and pack it into a plastic container in the fridge. With lid. To keep it fresh. Every three days. Fortunately for her, Cecilia had made chop the day she departed, so at least Gwen knew what it looked like in its prepared state. To make the chop, she was to choose from a long list of vegetables that included carrots, snap peas, Brussels sprouts, cucumber, radish—the list went on and on. Fresh herbs and cooked pasta could be added. No celery—strings too dangerous. And only 10 percent of the diet was to be fruit. Today was chop-making day. Vegetables were in the crisper drawers, money for extras in an envelope on the kitchen counter.