But he couldn’t sleep on the couch tonight, because his father was sleeping out there. His father was sleeping out there because when he told Wunder’s mother that he had arranged the funeral she did not want, she had locked the door to their bedroom.

Wunder had been sleeping out there because of what was in the far corner of his room.

And looking at it now, his heart absolutely did not feel like a bird. His heart felt like a broken promise. His heart felt like a stone, hard and cold and heavy.

Then he looked around the rest of his room. It was, he realized, a miracologist’s room. But now, he wasn’t a miracologist anymore.

He knew what he had to do.

He went to the walls first. Down came the framed picture of himself as a baby, the words Where there is great love there are always miracles inscribed along the bottom. Down came a drawing of the Twin Miracle of the Buddha that he’d traced from a library book. Down came the Calendar of the Saints, still showing September 26, as if time had stopped on that day.

Then he cleared off his desk, which was covered in the newspapers he scoured daily for stories of miracles. He tossed an old clipping from the Branch Hill Broadcast about his miracology. There was a copy of the speech he’d written for the first meeting of the Unexplainable and Inexplicable Phenomenon Society there too. He’d started the club at the beginning of the school year, and so far that first meeting was the only one he’d had.

Now he was sure he would never have another one.

From the bookshelf, he took down the eleven angel statues his father had given him, one for each year of his life. Then he started on the books—poetry, philosophy, scriptures from many faiths—all filled with miracles, all given to him over the years by teachers and family and neighbors.

He tossed them to the floor, one by one.

Then there was only one thing left. On his nightstand, worn black leather with a peeling white title—The Miraculous.

He picked up the book. He ran his fingers along the silver edges, along the letters stamped on its front, then opened it to the first page. The writing there was his mother’s, because he hadn’t known how to write yet:

Miraculous Entry #1

My name is Wunder Ellis, and I am a miracologist. My mother says my birth was a miracle, but I don’t remember that. The first miracle that I remember happened yesterday. I was in the woods, and there was a bird—

Wunder slammed the book shut. He didn’t want to read about miracles. He didn’t want to read his first entry, and he definitely didn’t want to read his last entry—the entry he’d completed five days ago, before he knew there would be a funeral.

He didn’t want to read The Miraculous. So he threw it into the pile of discarded things.