““The birds are catching fire again. I keep shouting up to them, Fly lower, fly lower! They never listen. They’re dropping all around us now, and we run for the nearest building, this big squat red thing, a county office of some kind, maybe something to do with zoning? But the door is locked and no one comes no matter how loud we knock so we cover our heads and run across the street to this cheesy trattoria-type thing and huddle there under the awning, or what should be an awning, red-and-white striped, but isn’t—there’s nothing left but shreds after the big birdstorm last week. - " [Exeunt. ””
