A bird landed on the porch rail, tiny and damp, and tilted its head as if recognizing her. In its eye she saw a reflection not of herself but of a child on a beach, laughing, reaching for a feather with sticky hands. The reflection blurred into different frames, like a camera flipping through memory reels. Casey felt a pressure behind her ribs, as if a door pushed from the other side. She put her palm to the bird and felt a warmth that tasted like salt and old radio static.