“What is this?” the Minister whispers.
“An act of love,” the Sparrow whispers back. And she kisses him on the mouth.
There is heat. There is light. There is a crack in the world. There is the sound of something exploding—or something coming together. The Minister cannot tell.
The Minister sees his mother. The Minister sees stars. The Minister sees the Boro comet, hanging like a jewel around his own neck. He wraps his fingers around it. He traces his finger along the scar on his mother’s face, like a meteor streaking across the sky.
“I knew it,” he said.
And then there is only darkness.
And the Minister is gone.
30. Now.
There are no curtains on the window, at the junk man’s request, and as the sun invades his face first thing in the morning, his first thought is his missing cart. Indeed, every single morning for the last three months, the whereabouts and well-being of his cart were his daily first thought—best, he thought, to start with the small losses. Otherwise he might never get off the couch.
(The fact of his seemingly permanent place on the couch is a new development. He is inside, even. Still, after years sleeping out of doors, there are a few things he has insisted upon. The lack of curtains, for one. And at least one open window.)
He sits up, the memory of the cart’s delightful squeaking wheels echoing in his ears. He hangs on to the sound, like a touchstone. There are reports that, due to the whimsical and chaotic nature of the magic still leaking back into the land, the cart has, apparently, grown a stag’s head, and has been seen in the forest, happily munching the bark off a young maple tree. The junk man isn’t sure how he feels about this. He is fairly certain that the cart itself is made from maple. Wouldn’t that be cannibalism? He isn’t sure, but he is worried about his cart’s current moral path.
He hasn’t had a drink since the wave. Not a drop. He is suddenly very worried about moral paths.
He sees to the farm while Marla is indisposed. She hasn’t gotten out of bed since . . .
People called it the Blessing. And maybe it was. The soldiers were freed, after all. The Minister disappeared in a flash of light. And the strange things that had been leaking from the girl all those years. Well, they are everywhere now. The world is filled with sparrows. He grimaces just thinking about it. He swallows acid into his gut.
My Sparrow, my Sparrow, my Sparrow, he thinks as he pulls on his pants and slides his feet into almost new boots. Each syllable follows a heartbeat. My Sparrow. Each heartbeat is an elegy.
He goes into the yard to feed chickens. The red plumes, the purple bantams, the snow-white silkies. And of course, the legions of Midges, outnumbering the rest. The Midges take the longest—primarily, because there are so many, but also because they have been refusing to eat. They miss the girl. The junk man croons and cajoles, and finally persuades each Midge to eat. They do so begrudgingly. They remember how the girl loved him. They are doing it for the Sparrow. Everyone misses the girl. Even those who never laid eyes on her in their lives. They weep and mourn and rend their hair. They are desolate.
By the time the junk man goes inside, his feed bucket is empty and his egg basket is quite full. He has also gathered tomatoes and herbs and a dark purple pepper. He whips the eggs, fries the vegetables, and makes an omelet. He has never made an omelet. He has never even had one. He has never known the word omelet until this moment. But there it is—fluffy and delicate and perfect. A delight to the tongue.
So many things he can do now. He tells himself it is because he has given up the bottle. He knows it is because of the wave.
“Here,” he says, entering Marla’s room and throwing open the curtains. “Eat.” He sets the tray on the bedside table. He even included a vase of flowers.
“Go away,” the egg woman says. “I hate you.”
“I know,” the junk man says. “But I will not go away. You’re all I have left. And I love you. Hell, I’ve loved you for most of my life.”
He rests his hand on hers. They do not move. They stay that way, their grief pressing on their chests. Very slowly, she allows her fingers to interlace with his. Very slowly, she hooks him close, and hangs on tight.
31. Then.
The night Marla brought the Constable to their camp, the Sparrow woke up while everyone else was still asleep. The fire was low. The junk man had laid out blankets for the egg woman and the Constable and himself, and they curved toward its fading heat.
The Sparrow stared at the fire for a long time, until the logs blazed and a pile of glowing coals piled in the center. She watched as the bodies of the adults unraveled a bit, and relaxed. They would sleep longer if they were warm. She climbed out of her tree and ran down the darkened trail.
The Tice house slept hard in the dark. Though the Vox’s harsh rattle woke other families, the Tices chose to keep their pillows unpatriotically over their ears. They slept through it. They didn’t even stir.
“REMEMBER CITIZENS!” the Vox concluded as the Sparrow slid open the window. “NO ACT OF LOVE FOR OUR BELOVED MINISTER IS TOO SMALL. HE LOVES YOU. HE LOVES EVERY ONE OF YOU. WHAT WILL YOU DO TO SHOW YOUR LOVE TO OUR DEAR LEADER?”
The Sparrow stood in the living room. What would she do? She had an idea. She imagined the wave. She imagined it moving through her, moving through whatever she touched. He loves magic, she thought. He loves it so much. And he could be a part of it forever. Dissolved. Unified. A blessing.
He would never have enough. Not the way he
