Celia’s picnic basket was on the bed, and in a corner of it was the napkin containing the dead finch. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to make decisions. How simple it had been at the plankton factory, though of course it had been terrible, too. There he hadn’t been responsible for anything. The Keepers could be blamed for problems. He hoped that Fidelito wouldn’t get into trouble for losing María’s bird. No one knew, after all, that it was dead. Matt could say that it was living happily in Opium, but no, he’d have to tell the truth. Otherwise Fidelito might throw something else into the portal. He thought about contacting the convent again and was strangely reluctant. The boys were on one side of the portal, having a high old time raiding kitchens and destroying flower beds. He was trapped on the other, with a wall of death in between. It was like watching TV when he was very small and had never seen other children. It was worse than being alone. After a while Matt went outside and buried the finch, still in its napkin, under an orange tree.
