“Quinn?” Cora says. “Are you listening?”

I startle. “Huh? Oh yeah. I agree with everything you’re saying.”

Cora wrinkles her nose again. Overhead, a group of birds are flying in a triangular pattern, a dark splotch against the blue sky. The noise of their flapping wings fills the woods; it sounds like rain pattering against a roof.

“Is there”—I rack my brain for the right word—“a scientific term for a group of birds?” This is the type of question Cora always knows the answer to.

“Flock,” Cora responds quickly. “Well, usually. But some subspecies of birds have more specific names for a group of them. Like a group of falcons is called a ‘bazaar.’”

“‘Bazaar,’” I repeat.

“Did you know that human ears are trained to hear the chirping of birds?” Cora asks even though I know she doesn’t expect me to answer. “I heard that once on one of the podcasts Dad listens to.”

“Of all the sounds in the world,” she continues, “we hear birds best of all. And you know why that is? You’d think it might be the roar of lions or the sound of some other predator, right? But no. We hear the chirps of birds because where there are birds, there usually is water. And where there is water, there’s life. We’re biologically programmed to favor life. Not fear. Isn’t that so cool?”

“So cool,” I whisper, looking up at the birds. They’re almost out of view now, near the edge of the sky, their flapping a distant hum.

I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed this part of Cora until now. Her mind is like a treasure chest of mind-blowing facts. And when she shares them with you, it makes you start to believe that the world is actually a pretty amazing place. It makes you see everything a little differently.

I’m trying to figure out how to tell her this, when I see that her eyes are glossy. She hunches over, grasping her backpack straps. She makes a sucking sound with her mouth.

I know that sound.

It’s the vacuuming of tears, the desperate suctioning-up of salt and sadness. When you do it, you feel like you’re choking. When you do it, it’s because you feel like you have no other choice.

“Core,” I say. “It’s—”

She holds up her hand. Another sucking sound. This time louder. She wipes snot away from her nose. “I’m sorry. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. This is insane.” She gestures toward the giant oak tree. “I just can’t.”

She takes off into the woods. I shout after her, but she doesn’t turn around.

I’m left. Alone.

The sky’s empty. There’s not a bird in sight.

Nine

Cora

I reach for the buzzer, but I’m too slow. Peter Tolbin, an eighth grader who smells strongly of leather-scented Axe body spray, beats me to it once again.

“The naked mole rat,” he says.

“Correct,” Coach Pearlman says, and awards a point to the eighth graders. I find it annoying that when we scrimmage, we are always divided into seventh versus eighth grade. First, we’re one team. Second, the eighth grade has a major advantage—they’ve been on Quiz Bowl for a whole year longer than us. But I know Coach Pearlman wouldn’t appreciate me complaining, so I keep my mouth shut and stare sourly at the bald eagle poster hanging in the corner of Coach’s classroom. The bald eagle is flying across a bright blue sky and there’s white script underneath it that says Soar with Attitude. It’s the only decoration Coach Pearlman has up. He’s what Grams would call a “minimalist.”