Marley’s bedroom was down the hall from the clock, which meant that most of the time the bird’s warbling couldn’t be heard when her door was shut. In the dead stillness of the early morning of July 11, the bird sang me awake. Five a.m. on the dot.

I wiggled from my sleeping bag. Marley’s room was filled with the restful breaths of the four girls and three boys who were still asleep. I tiptoed over them, careful not to wake anyone. By the time I made it into the living room, the plump, feathered thing was retreating, back to sleep for another fifty-nine minutes. I climbed up onto the couch to press my face against the glass. What happened to the stuffed bird while he sat inside that dark box? Did he listening to the tick of the hand as seconds passed? Did he watch the clock’s cogs grind?

My breath fogged up my view. I pulled up my sleep shirt to wipe away the imprint of my nose. Once again I smashed my face against the clock’s. The white behind the Roman numerals had yellowed over time. I looked past it, staring into the small hole in the center, my vision blurring until finally, something clicked into focus—the glass eyes of the stuffed bird, amber-rimmed with onyx pupils. I stared at him and he stared back, both of us unflinching.

The ticking clock told me it had been fifteen seconds of this standoff between the bird and me. The air felt like sandpaper on my eyes. Tears formed above my lower lashes. I would have to blink. I was only human.

The bird would win.

As I prepared to surrender, giving myself three more ticks of the clock before I would cave, the bird’s eyes moved. He glanced to his left, his glass eyes growing small and worried as he examined a corner of the interior only he could see.

I blinked. I couldn’t wait any longer. When I opened my eyes again, I couldn’t find the bird inside his house anymore. All I saw was yellowed paper and the blurred hands of the clock, continuing to move.

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