She was on her living room couch, sail dressed, covered by a quilt. The clock read 3:53 A.M. She had gotten home from Mendocino less than an hour earlier, exhausted. The bedroom had seemed too far away. She said, “Hello?” For several seconds, there was no sound but faint static. “Hello,” she said again, annoyed now that it was probably a wrong number. “If you can hear me, I can’t hear you.” Her finger moved to click off the phone. “It was awfully late at night to go bird watching.” The voice was an eerie whisper: high-pitched, childlike. “Bird watching?” “You went looking for a woodbird?” Woodbird. Tanager. She woke up fast, scanning the windows as if a face might be there. “Who is this?” “Did he sing for you?” the whisper asked. “We—talked. Yes.” “I’m more and more impressed. At first I was afraid you’d be just another pretty face.” Alison tried for the same playful tone. “Where have we met?” A hint of laughter. “Did he tell you my name?”
