It might be that this action was hard on his jaws, because over time he couldn’t seem to pop it into the air as far. At the beginning of the week, he could easily send it 12 feet through the air to her, but with each day that passed that distance decreased. To catch the ball she’d have to move a little closer. By the end of the week, they stood 6 feet apart while playing.

Still he insisted on the game. She assumed if his jaw really hurt, he would stop.

* * *

Junior continued to practice language by himself each day after lunch, on the far end of the pool, wanting privacy. He’d float in front of the mirror, angled so he could see his blowhole while he worked, rolling it in and out of the water, practicing and practicing, trying to enunciate.

Watching him stare at his own blowhole while he tried to talk, she wondered if it would help him to see more clearly how she formed the words with her mouth. So one morning, she covered her face with a very pale face powder, making her skin white as a doll’s. Then she applied the darkest lipstick she could find, a color called Plumtastic. Whether or not he was colorblind, this difference in contrast would help him see the exact motions her lips were making.

She bent down, leaning in close, where his eyes could focus on her mouth. She spoke slowly.—Talk. Square. Squu-are.

She looked a little like a geisha, her face painted for him. She said—Talk. Squu-aaaare. Squu-aaare.

She leaned in close, as though she was about to kiss his beak, moving her glistening lips in exaggerated motions.

He stared at her, tilting his head this way and that, trying to understand.

She said—Talk. Squuu-aaaare.

Of course he learned. This was what she wanted. His language did improve each day. By the end of the week, he could say—Ssss khh-arrre.

He could pronounce the S loudly and clearly enough that even she could hear it. However, some of what he learned was different than what she had intended. In the morning when she said the word talk, he began to get an erection.

* * *

On Sundays when she went into town for her day off, the vet met her for lunch.

These lunches were like visiting a foreign country, such different customs. In town, she had to wear more clothing and sit with her legs crossed. She could not bolt down food like she did in the homearium, wordless and hunched.

Aching to hear spoken language, she asked about the vet’s life. He had a deep voice that was easier to hear. He faced her and spoke clearly. He’d grown up in St. Thomas, had a mother and four sisters. He never mentioned the father, and she assumed she should not ask. As a child, he was always bringing sick wild animals home to try to nurse them back to health. Bats, toads, baby birds, a mongoose, a fawn and a feral donkey. One day when he was nine, his mother opened the hall closet and found an owl glaring at her from the clothes rod. After that, he wasn’t allowed to bring the animals into the house anymore.