Her hand was wrapped tightly around Rosa’s.
She liked it enough to ask me to send her a copy.
On the drive home, she fell asleep.
Rosa turned in the passenger seat to look at her.
“She made her choice,” she said quietly.
“Yes.”
“I hope I can be as brave about it as she was.”
“You don’t have to feel ready all at once.”
Rosa smiled faintly.
“I’m going to need somebody to remind me of that in the summer.”
“We will.”
When we got home, our daughter ran to the kitchen window.
Mystery was on the maple branch.
Ben reached for his phone, but the bird flew before he could take a picture.
He lowered it.
“Again,” he said.
Our daughter pressed her hands against the glass.
“She came back after all this time.”
“She did.”
“We’ll catch her next time.”
“Maybe,” Ben said.
Our daughter turned toward him.
“You’re not worried?”
“No.
I’m glad we saw her.”
Later, I looked at the photograph from the science camp.
Emily was standing in front of a door she had chosen to walk through.
She was holding Rosa’s hand.
Both things were true.
I sent the picture to her.
A minute later, Rosa replied.
She wants to put it beside her bed until summer.

 

Part 15 — The Letter Emily Didn’t Send

Emily prepared for the science program by making three lists.

The first was for clothes.

The second was for everything she wanted to see.

The third was for the things she would do if she woke up frightened.

Rosa found the third list tucked beneath Emily’s pillow.

At the top, Emily had written, Remember where the door is.

Below that came her plans.

Turn on the small light.

Look at the photograph of Rosa.

Ask the cabin leader for help.

Call home if I need to.

Rosa brought the list to our house on a Sunday afternoon.

“She says I can show you,” she told Ben and me.

Emily was in the backyard with our daughter, repainting the birdhouse.

Ben read the page.

“She made a good plan,” he said.

“She did.”

Rosa ran her finger along the edge of the paper.

“I wish a plan could make me stop worrying.”

“It gives both of you something to use,” I said.

Rosa looked through the window.

Emily stood on a chair while our daughter held the paint jar.

She was putting a fresh coat of purple on one side of the roof.

“She keeps asking if I’ll be all right while she’s away,” Rosa said.

“What do you tell her?”

“That I’ll miss her and I’ll be all right.”

“That’s the truth.”

“Yes.”

“She’ll probably need to hear it more than once.”

“So will I.”

The Night Before Departure

On the evening before Emily left, we went to Rosa’s house for dinner.

Her suitcase stood beside the front door.

A pillow in a yellow case rested on top.

Emily checked the suitcase twice while we were there.

She had packed her notebook, a flashlight, a sweater, and the photograph taken outside the cabin.

Our daughter brought her a small envelope.

“Don’t open it until you get there,” she said.

Emily turned it over.

“What’s inside?”

“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise.”

“What if it’s something I need now?”

“You don’t.”

Emily slipped it into the front pocket of her suitcase.

After dinner, the girls went out to the porch.

Ben helped Rosa move dishes to the sink.

I found Emily’s counselor’s number on a note by the phone.

Rosa noticed me looking.

“I won’t call her every day,” she said.

“I didn’t think you would.”

“I might call once.”

“You can.”

Rosa laughed at herself.

“She’s going to learn about birds, and I’m behaving as though she’s crossing an ocean.”

“She’s never spent three weeks away from you.”

“I know.”

Ben set down a plate.

“She chose to go because she trusts you’ll still be here when she gets back.”

Rosa looked at him.

“I hope so.”

“She told us exactly that at the open day.”

Rosa went to the porch door.

Emily was showing our daughter how to whistle through a blade of grass.

Neither produced much sound.

Both laughed.

Rosa watched them for a while.

Then she returned to the dishes.

The First Call

The program allowed children to call home after their first full day.

Rosa invited us over to wait with her.

“I know this is ridiculous,” she said as she opened the door.

“It isn’t,” I replied.

She had cleaned the kitchen and baked enough muffins for a crowd.

There were only three of us.

Our daughter had gone to a friend’s house, and Ben came directly from work.

The phone rang at seven.

Rosa answered before it finished its first ring.

“Emily?”

We heard a bright voice.

Rosa’s shoulders lowered.

She put the call on speaker so Emily could say hello.

“I saw a heron,” Emily announced.

“Did you get a picture?” I asked.

“No.

It flew before I found my camera.

Ben always has that problem.”

“I do,” Ben said.

Emily told us her cabin leader’s name was Frances.

Her roommate liked frogs.

They had walked from the dining hall to the cabin after dark, and Emily had recognized the turn without her map.

Then Rosa asked, “How was last night?”

Emily went quiet.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“I used my little light.

Then I talked to Frances.”

“I’m glad you told her.”

“She sat with me until I was sleepy.”

Rosa pressed her lips together.

“Do you want me to come get you?”

“No,” Emily said quickly.

“I want to stay.

I just wanted you to know I missed you.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

They spoke until the program’s call time ended.

When Rosa put down the phone, she sat very still.

“She missed me and still wants to stay,” she said.

“Both can be true,” Ben replied.

Rosa smiled through tears.

“I keep hearing that lately.”

The Envelope

Emily opened our daughter’s envelope after the call.

She told us about it in her first letter home.

Inside was a small drawing of the birdhouse.

On the back, our daughter had written:

We can look at the same sky even when you are far away.

Emily pinned it beside her bed.

She wrote that she had seen three kinds of birds, made one new friend, and learned that the stars near the lake looked brighter than the stars at home.

Then, at the bottom, she added a line meant for our daughter.

Tell Mystery I’m still looking for her.

Our daughter read the letter four times.

She carried it to the kitchen window.

“Mystery isn’t here,” she said.

“She might visit tomorrow.”

“I’m going to write back before she does.”

She spent an hour describing the maple tree, the tomatoes, and a bird she thought might be Susan.

Then she drew the kitchen window.

Ben helped her find an envelope.

I wrote the address.

She insisted on putting the stamp on herself.

The Letter She Kept

A week later, Rosa received a call from Frances.

Emily was doing well in her activities, but she had become quiet after dinner for two nights.

Frances had found her sitting at a table with a folded letter.

“She said she wasn’t ready to mail it,” Frances told Rosa.

“Is she asking to come home?”

“No.

She’s participating during the day.

I wanted you to know she seems to be carrying something she may want help talking through.”

Rosa called Emily during the next scheduled time.

At first, Emily told her about the lake.

Then Rosa said, “Frances mentioned you wrote a letter.”

Emily was silent.

“You don’t have to send it,” Rosa said.

“I wrote it to you.”

“You can tell me what it says if you want.”

“I asked whether you’re lonely.”

Rosa sat down.

“I do miss you.”

“That isn’t the same question.”

“You’re right.

Some evenings the house feels quiet.

I’ve also had dinner with friends and gone to work.

I’m taking care of myself.”

Emily’s voice trembled.

“I thought if you knew I was happy here, you’d be sad.”

“I’m happy that you’re happy.”

“Even when I’m not with you?”

“Especially when you’re doing something you chose.”

Emily took a breath.

“I didn’t mail it because I didn’t want to make you cry.”

Rosa looked at the clock on the wall.

“You don’t have to protect me from knowing what you feel.”

“I know.

I forgot for a while.”

“You can always send me a letter.

You can tell me about the hard parts as well as the good ones.”

Emily said she would think about mailing it.

The next day, she did.

Rosa kept it on her bedside table after reading it.

She did not show it to us.

It belonged to the two of them.

A Question for Me

While Emily was away, I spent longer hours at the assistance office.

The hospital had asked whether I would take a permanent position helping families communicate with the team.

Until then, I had been working on a temporary arrangement.

I had liked being able to help.

I also missed parts of the life I had before I began spending most days at the hospital.

One evening, Ben found me at the kitchen table staring at the offer.

“Is it a bad one?” he asked.

“No.

It’s fair.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

“I don’t know whether I want this to become my whole working life.”

He sat down.

“I assumed you did.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“I haven’t been clear either.”

I looked at the paper again.

“When you asked me to join you, I wanted to help build something better.

I still do.

But I’ve begun to feel as though I’m following the path your life took through this hospital.”

Ben listened.

“What would you choose if you weren’t thinking about me?” he asked.

“I need a little time to find out.”

“Then take it.

The team can discuss what the position needs, whether you accept it or not.”

I folded the offer.

“Would you be disappointed?”

“I’d miss working with you.”

“That isn’t quite an answer.”

“Yes.

I might feel disappointed for a while.

I don’t want you to take a job because you’re afraid of that.”

I reached across the table.

“Thank you for telling me the truth.”

“You taught me to.”

“Sometimes you listened.”

He smiled.

We left the offer on the table and went upstairs.

For once, I was the one who needed room to decide.

The Visit

Rosa visited Emily at the science program at the end of the second week.

They spent the afternoon walking around the lake.

Emily showed her where she had seen the heron.

She introduced her to Frances and the friend who liked frogs.

Then she showed Rosa the cabin.

Her photograph still stood beside the bed.

So did the drawing of the birdhouse.

“Is it strange to see me here?” Emily asked.

“A little,” Rosa said.

“Because I’m sleeping somewhere else?”

“Because you know your way around and I don’t.”

Emily looked pleased.

“I can show you.”

She led Rosa back to the dining hall without taking out her map.

At the door, they had a few minutes before Rosa needed to leave.

Emily hugged her.

“I cried the first night,” she said.

“I know.”

“I cried a little on Tuesday too.”

“You told me.”

“But I’m glad I came.”

Rosa held her close.

“I’m glad too.”

“I want to come home next week.”

“I’ll be there.”

Emily stepped back.

“You’ll be all right until then?”

“I will.”

Rosa drove away with tears in her eyes.

She called me from a rest stop to tell me everything.

“She knows the place better than I do,” she said.

“She wanted that.”

“She got it.”

The Choice

I gave the hospital my answer two days later.

I would help train the person who took the permanent position.

I would continue to support specific projects when the team needed me.

I would not accept the full-time role.

Leila was the first person I told.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure about the decision.

I’m still working out what comes next for me.”

She nodded.

“You helped us notice things we were too used to seeing.”

“You listened.”

“Stay long enough to tell the new person where we keep the forms nobody can ever find.”

“I can do that.”

Ben met me outside after work.

“Do you want to celebrate?” he asked.

“I don’t know what I’m celebrating yet.”

“A decision that belongs to you.”

I looked at him.

“That sounds worth dinner.”

We picked up our daughter from Rosa’s house and went to the small restaurant by the river.

Our daughter ordered dessert first.

I told her I had decided to spend less time at the hospital.

“Will you still know Leila?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Will Dad still come home at six?”

“We’re going to keep working on that,” Ben said.

She accepted it.

Then she asked whether Emily would be back in time to see the next tomato.

“She will,” I said.

The Homecoming

On the last day of camp, Rosa drove to the lake.

We waited at her house for news.

Our daughter had made a banner that said WELCOME HOME, EMILY in letters too large to fit neatly across the paper.

Ben helped hang it over Rosa’s living room doorway.

They arrived in the late afternoon.

Emily came inside carrying her notebook, a damp jacket, and a carved wooden bird she had made in class.

She stopped when she saw the banner.

“You spelled everything right,” she told our daughter.

“I checked three times.”

They hugged.

Then Emily told us about the final morning.

She had gone out with her group before breakfast to listen for birds.

She had recognized one by its song.

“Which one?” Ben asked.

“A thrush.

I’ll show you the page.”

She opened her notebook.

It was filled with drawings, lists, smudges, and observations written in the margins.

On the final page was a sketch of her cabin.

Beneath it, she had written:

I was scared here.

I was happy here too.

Rosa stood beside her while we looked.

Emily closed the notebook.

“Can we go see the birdhouse tomorrow?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“I want to tell Mystery where I’ve been.”

The Next Morning

Emily came over early.

The girls ran into the backyard before Rosa had finished taking off her coat.

Ben and I followed with coffee.

Emily stood beneath the maple tree and looked up at the birdhouse.

“The paint is still good,” she said.

“You did a careful job,” Ben replied.

“I know.”

A bird landed on the branch above us.

It had a pale patch beneath one wing.

Our daughter grabbed Emily’s arm.

“Mystery.”

Ben reached for his phone.

This time he did not hurry.

The bird stayed long enough for him to take a clear photograph.

He showed it to the girls.

Emily grinned.

“We found her.”

“She found us,” our daughter said.

Ben sent the photograph to Rosa and to me.

Later, I printed a copy for Emily’s notebook.

She placed it after the drawing of her cabin.

On one page was the place she had learned to sleep away from home.

On the next was the bird she had hoped to see again.

That evening, after Rosa and Emily had left, I sat beside Ben at the kitchen table.

The job offer was gone from the pile of papers.

My answer had been given.

“What do you want to do next?” he asked.

“I have a few ideas.”

“Tell me.”

“I will.

I’m still finding the words.”

He nodded and waited.

I looked toward the window.

The birdhouse hung quietly in the maple tree.

For once, the unfinished choice in our family belonged to me.

Ben did not rush to solve it.

He stayed beside me while I began to talk.

Part 16 — What I Wanted Before Everything Changed

“I used to write,” I told Ben.

We were still sitting at the kitchen table.

He turned toward me.

“You still write notes everywhere.”

“I mean stories.”

“I remember.”

“Do you?”

“You filled three notebooks when we first met.”

I looked down at my hands.

“I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

“I read the one you gave me.”

“That was eleven years ago.”

“Twelve,” he said.

“You wrote a story about a woman who took a train to a town she had never seen.”

“And then I stopped.”

“You had a lot happening.”

“We both did.”

I heard our daughter turning pages upstairs.

The house was quiet around us.

“I want to write again,” I said.

Ben did not answer immediately.

Then he asked, “What about?”

“I don’t know yet.

Maybe about people trying to find their way through something difficult.

Maybe something entirely made up.”

“You don’t have to decide tonight.”

“I know.

I’m saying it aloud so I can’t keep treating it like an idea that doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” he said.

I looked at him.

“When I asked what came next, I thought you might say you wanted another job.”

“I may want one later.

Right now, I want time to find out whether I still know how to do this.”

“I think you do.”

“You haven’t read anything I’ve written in years.”

“Then I’ll wait until you want to show me.”

That answer helped more than praise would have.

I took a notebook from the drawer that night.

The first page remained blank until morning.

The First Page

At dawn, I sat at the table with a pen and the notebook.

The maple tree made a shadow across the kitchen window.

I wrote one sentence.

Then I crossed it out.

I wrote another.

It sounded like something I thought a story ought to say.

I crossed that out too.

By the time Ben came downstairs, I had filled half a page with beginnings I disliked.

“You’re working,” he said.

“Trying.”

“Do you want coffee?”

“Yes.”

He made it and set the cup beside me.

He did not look at the page.

After he left for the hospital, I wrote about a woman standing in a corridor with a bag of lunch in her hand.

I stopped after three lines.

That story was too close to the one I had lived.

I turned the page.

This time, I wrote about a girl who built a house for birds and waited for one to come.

I knew the girl already.

I could hear her arguing with a friend about the color of the roof.

For an hour, I wrote without crossing anything out.

When I looked up, the coffee was cold.

I did not mind.

The New Person at the Office

My replacement at the assistance office was named Anika.

On her first day, I showed her the shelves, the shared notes, and the cabinet where everyone placed forms they did not know how to file.

“This cabinet is a problem,” I said.

“Why does it exist?”

“Because we haven’t agreed where some documents belong.”

“Can we agree?”

“We should.”

She smiled and took out her notebook.

During the next two weeks, we worked side by side.

Anika listened carefully to families.

When she did not know an answer, she asked.

She also noticed that we had been using three slightly different explanations for the same step in an application.

Camille and Leila sat down with her to write one clear version.

By the end of my final week, Anika knew the work well enough to challenge parts of it.

I was glad.

On my last afternoon, Leila handed me a small box.

Inside was a pen and a stack of blank notebooks.

Camille had written on a card:

For the stories you keep telling us you’re going to write.

“You told them?” I asked.

“I mentioned it,” Leila said.

“You told everyone.”

“Only the people in this room.”

Nina came in carrying a cake.

Ben appeared behind her.

“I had no part in this,” he said.

“You knew.”

“I was told where to stand.”

We ate cake in the meeting room.

Afterward, I cleared my desk.

I said goodbye to the team and promised Anika she could call if she could not find something.

When I walked out of the hospital, I stopped at the entrance.

I thought of the morning I had arrived with Ben’s lunch and no idea what awaited me upstairs.

The building was still complicated.

So was my life beyond it.

I went to my car carrying the notebooks.

The Story I Didn’t Show Anyone

I wrote each morning while our daughter was at school.

Some days I finished several pages.

Some days I moved one sentence from one place to another and then moved it back.

I wrote about a girl who believed a painted birdhouse had to be perfect before a bird could live in it.

Her grandmother let her build it with one purple side and one yellow side.

The girl worried that the mismatched roof would keep every bird away.

In my story, she eventually met an injured bird.

I stopped there.

I did not know what happened next.

Ben asked how the writing was going.

“I have a beginning.”

“Do you like it?”

“Sometimes.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“Are you talking about my story or your first month as director?”

“Both.”

I did not show him the pages.

He never asked to see them.

Our daughter noticed the notebooks on the table.

“Can I read it?” she asked.

“When I’m ready.”

“Is it about me?”

“It has a girl who likes birds.”

“That sounds like me and Emily.”

“It might remind you of them.”

“Does she find a bird?”

“I’m still writing.”

Our daughter gave me a look of great concern.

“You should figure that out soon.”

“I’m trying.”

Rosa’s News

One afternoon, Rosa called while I was staring at the unfinished bird story.

“Emily wants to tell you something,” she said.

I put the phone on speaker.

“June is coming over on Saturday,” Emily announced.

“That sounds fun.”

“We’re making a presentation about birds.”

“For school?”

“For ourselves.

We want to show it to you.”

“Then I’ll be ready.”

Emily hesitated.

“June knows about the hospital.”

I set down my pen.

“Did you tell her?”

“Yes.

Not everything.

I told her I was sick and that some people did things they weren’t supposed to do.”

“How did she respond?”

“She asked whether she should stop asking me to play doctor when we make up games.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said we could play it if I wanted.

She said okay.”

“That sounds like a good conversation.”

“It was.

I was scared she’d act strange around me.”

“She listened to you.”

“Yes.”

In the background, Rosa called that they needed to leave for an appointment.

Emily promised to bring her presentation on Saturday.

After the call, I opened my notebook again.

I had been trying to decide whether the girl in my story would rescue the injured bird herself.

Now I knew.

She would tell her friend she had found it.

Together, they would ask someone who knew how to help.

I wrote for the rest of the afternoon.

The Presentation

June came with Emily and Rosa on Saturday.

She was a lively girl with short hair and a habit of finishing her sentences faster than anyone else could answer.

They had made a poster covered with bird drawings and notes.

One section was titled Things We Know.

Another was titled Things We Still Need to Find Out.

Mystery occupied most of the second section.

Ben stood with his hands behind his back, studying the drawings.

“Are you accepting questions?” he asked.

“At the end,” Emily said.

June tapped the poster.

“We have a theory.”

“What is it?” our daughter asked.

“Mystery might be two birds.”

Our daughter gasped.

“That’s what Arnold said when we first saw her.”

“Then Arnold has a theory too,” June said.

“His theory was that we could name a new bird.

That’s different.”

The debate lasted through lunch.

At one point, Ben tried to explain how photographs from different days might help.

The girls told him they had already considered that.

Afterward, June stayed to play in the yard.

I watched Emily bring her friend beneath the maple tree.

She showed June the birdhouse and explained why the roof had two colors.

June did not ask about Room 814.

She asked whether birds could see purple paint.

They went inside to look it up.

The Day I Got Stuck

By autumn, my bird story had grown longer.

I had a beginning and a middle.

The girl and her friend found help for the injured bird.

The bird recovered.

Then I could not write the ending.

Every version felt too neat.

In one, the bird stayed at the painted house forever.

In another, it flew away and returned at exactly the right moment.

I wanted the girl to feel that helping it had mattered, whether she saw it again or not.

I could not make her believe it.

For four days, I wrote nothing.

On the fifth, I went to see Ben’s mother.

She was clearing the last of the vegetables from her garden.

I helped her carry a basket inside.

“How is your story?” she asked.

“Stuck.”

“Where?”

“At the ending.”

“Tell me what happened before it.”

I told her about the girl, her friend, the bird, and the two-colored roof.

She listened while washing dirt from a handful of carrots.

“Why did the girl build the house?” she asked.

“She wanted birds to come.”

“Why?”

“Because she was lonely.”

Ben’s mother turned off the water.

“Is she still lonely?”

“She has a friend now.”

“Then perhaps the bird has already changed her life.”

I thought about it.

“The bird flies away.”

“Most birds do.”

“The girl thinks it means she failed.”

“Then let her be sad for a while.”

“What happens after that?”

Ben’s mother smiled.

“You’re the writer.”

I laughed.

She gave me a bag of carrots to take home.

On the drive back, I pulled into a parking lot and wrote the ending before I forgot it.

The bird flew away.

The girl kept the house in the tree.

Her friend came over, and they repaired the roof together after a storm.

They had no way to know whether the same bird would visit again.

They looked for it anyway.

The First Reader

I showed Ben the finished story on a rainy Sunday.

He sat on the sofa while I pretended to read a magazine.

When he reached the last page, he put the manuscript down.

“Well?” I asked.

“The girl’s grandmother reminds me of Mom.”

“She might.”

“I like that the friend stays to fix the roof.”

“So do I.”

He picked up the pages again.

“There’s a sentence near the end I want to read once more.”

He found it.

I watched his eyes move across the line.

“You made this,” he said.

“I did.”

He sounded a little amazed.

I understood.

For years, both of us had spoken about the parts of our lives that had become difficult.

Now there was something new on the table between us.

“Would you change anything?” I asked.

“A few parts confused me.”

“Tell me.”

He did.

At first, I wanted to defend every sentence.

Then I realized he had read closely enough to ask useful questions.

I made notes in the margin.

That evening, our daughter asked whether he liked it.

“I did,” he said.

“Can I read it now?”

I looked at my marked-up pages.

“After I make a few changes.”

“How many changes?”

“I’m not sure.”

She folded her arms.

“You and Dad always say that.”

The Jar of Wishes

New Year’s Eve returned.

Our daughter brought down the jar with its blue ribbon and crooked star.

We invited Rosa, Emily, Arnold, Ben’s mother, Leila, Ada, Camille, Nina, and Anika.

June came with her parents for dessert.

The house filled with coats, voices, and people looking for a place to set down a plate.

At eleven, our daughter put the jar in the middle of the table.

“We can finally read them,” she said.

She opened it and handed each folded paper to its writer.

I unfolded mine.

A year earlier, I had written:

I want to find something that belongs to me.

I read it again.

The words had been broad because I had not known what I wanted yet.

Ben leaned over.

“Are you going to tell me?”

I showed him.

He smiled.

“What did you write?” I asked.

He unfolded his paper.

I want the people I love to know when I’m coming home.

Across the room, our daughter read hers aloud.

“I wanted the birds to stay.”

Emily read hers next.

“I wanted to go somewhere new and come back.”

Rosa put an arm around her.

Emily grinned.

“I did that.”

“Yes,” Rosa said.

“You did.”

Ben’s mother kept her wish private.

Arnold said his handwriting was too bad to read.

Nobody believed him.

At midnight, we cheered.

The girls immediately began writing wishes for the next year.

I folded a new piece of paper and placed it in the jar.

I did not show it to anyone.

I had written:

I want to keep going.

The Page in Our Daughter’s Hands

A week later, I gave our daughter the revised story.

She read it on the living room floor.

When she finished, she came into the kitchen holding the pages against her chest.

“Is the girl me?”

“She has some things in common with you.”

“Is the friend Emily?”

“She has some things in common with Emily.”

“Does the bird come back?”

“I left that for you to imagine.”

She frowned.

“I want to know.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it does.

But even if it doesn’t, the girls still have the house.”

I nodded.

“That’s how I think about it too.”

She handed me the pages.

“Can Emily read it?”

“If you think she’d like to.”

“She will.

She likes stories where people get to decide things.”

I looked down at the manuscript.

So did I.

That weekend, Emily read it beneath the maple tree.

She returned the pages carefully.

“The bird should have a name,” she said.

“What would you call it?”

“Mystery.”

Our daughter shouted from across the yard, “That was my idea.”

“I know,” Emily called back.

“That’s why it’s a good one.”

I went inside to get a pencil.

For the first time, I wrote the bird’s name at the top of the page.