And into that little diagonal trail into the woods that few people knew about. Marla the egg woman liked her privacy and didn’t advertise her address. But he and Marla had a history, didn’t they? Surely she would be willing to offer advice at the very least.
The egg woman was just exiting the coop when he arrived. She was covered in dust and feathers.
She set her basket of eggs gently on the ground and glared at the junk man. She curled her meaty hands into fists and took a long, slow breath in through her nose. He had been worried this might happen.
“Marla,” he said. “You are a sight for sore eyes.” He meant it, too. (He loved her, once, after all. And once he had a chance to make her happy, and to be made happy in return. But he loved the drink more. And she hated drunks. So it goes.)
“What do you want?” she said, as she brushed the chicken debris from her overalls and hair.
“Found something on the rubbish heap today,” he said. He was breathless. He was worried. He wanted to show her the child, to have her inspect and evaluate and love her. And yet, not. At the same time. What if she wanted to take the child from him? What then? He felt a sob bloom in the depths of his throat.
“I’m not interested.” She arched her back to crack the kinks out of her spine and tilted her head to the sky. As if just talking to the junk man required divine intervention. She picked up her basket and walked toward the front porch.
“Marla—” he began. The baby’s whimper increased to a full wail. The egg woman didn’t seem to notice.
“That’s enough with the familiarity, thanks. You know the rules.” It had been like this for years. Her voice was a brick wall with him. And he was a broken bottle. This is why they never spoke.
“The soldiers,” he insisted. “The ones that took the baby with the mark.”
“Don’t talk about that,” she said. “It’s too sad.”
The baby squawked again. Marla didn’t seem to notice.
“Please—um, Madame Egg Gatherer. I really and truly need your help. The baby—” The baby raised her voice to a wail. Still Marla did not notice.
“I will be setting the dogs out soon,” she said. “You would be wise to be gone.” She disappeared into the house. The junk man stood on the porch, his head muddled by confusion and drink, and further addled by the loudening wails of the hunger-panicked baby.
He sighed, ran his hand over his face, and shook his head to dislodge the clouds in his brain. He unbuttoned his coat and laid it on the ground. Untying the baby’s wrappings, he realized one reason for her growing discomfort.
“Poor little thing,” he said, “sitting around in your own poo. Unfortunately I know the feeling.” He wiped her off with the torn-up sheet and laid her on the coat. She spread out her hands and waved her fists, and kicked vigorously with untamped rage.
“Marla!” he called.
“Don’t call me that, Simon. I have been very clear.”
“What kind of milk do you give to a baby?”
“Why on earth do you want to know that?”
“Whatever the best kind is, I’d like to buy it. You sell it don’t you?”
“The dogs are coming out right now, Simon. I would be terribly sad if they ripped your face off, despite everything. But I will comfort myself in knowing that you brought it on yourself.” She opened the door and three large dogs came tumbling onto the porch, snarling and snapping.
The junk man rubbed his thumbs on the soles of the baby’s feet and moved her legs back and forth. She calmed a bit, hiccupped, and launched a spray of urine straight down onto his bended knee. She smiled.
“Atta girl,” the junk man said, utterly delighted.
The dogs stopped their snarling and tilted their heads. The largest of the three leaned down and sniffed the head of the baby. It wagged its tail and whined a bit.
“What on earth?” the egg woman said.
“I told you. It’s a baby. Your dogs know better than to attack an infant, thank god. I think I’ll keep her around.”
Marla slid out the screen door and skirted the sniffing dogs. She glared at the junk man hunched over the coat. “There is nothing on that coat, Simon,” she said.
“Close your eyes,” the junk man whispered. “Close your eyes and smell.”
Knees cracking, the egg woman folded her legs, sitting primly on her heels. She rested her elbows on her thighs and closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose.
“Oh!” she whispered.
“You see?” the junk man said.
“But . . .” She opened her eyes. “Oh!” A gasp, a shudder, a sigh. And she saw. He could tell. Hesitating slightly, she extended her right hand to the magic mark curling from the child’s navel. She let her fingers linger there for a moment, each breath shuddering in and out, in and out. She pulled away, pressed her hands to her mouth, and tears leaked into the crinkles around her eyes. “The poor little thing!”
The junk man gathered the child into the crook of his arm and looked imploringly at the egg woman. “Will you help us?”
The magic mark glittered and glowed. The child sucked madly on her fist.
“Please.” He placed his hand on Marla’s strong shoulder. He hung on for dear life. She didn’t bat his hand away.
She felt her heart start to swell.
19. Now.
After three days of profound, dreamless sleep, the Sparrow emerges from her nest. Her hair is matted and her mouth is raw. There are burn marks on her throat and tongue, and deep cracks in her lips.
She remembers the buzz.
She remembers the butterflies.
She remembers a burning web and an open door and the shiver in her bones telling her that she wasn’t alone anymore. Well. This should be interesting.
They are at the egg woman’s house—she knows it well. She is in the loft. It is a comfortable place—thick quilts and a
