he has no name. one does not name them until they can fly, and most of them cannot. he was found three days ago at the foot of the wall outside, the nest above him empty and the other two already cold. the cook brought him in wrapped in the corner of an apron.
he lives in a shoebox lined with an old flannel on the kitchen counter, near the warm side of the stove. he is fed with a small dropper every twenty minutes from dawn until the cook goes to bed: warm water and the yolk of a hard egg, mashed thin. he opens his whole face for it. the mouth is enormous; the bird is almost nothing else.
he peeps when he is hungry, which is always. the peep is a single high note, two beats long, with a small click at the end. there are charts in books about how to raise these and the cook has read them all and disagrees with most. she is cautiously optimistic. it is the fourth day.
— if he makes it, he will go. that is the agreement, kept on her side and not yet on his.