Tobin named the sparrow before anyone asked him to.
It was a brown bird with one grey feather on its left wing. It had fallen through the cellar grate in the night, and Calen had found it there at first light, lying on the wet iron with its feet folded under.
Calen carried it down the nine stairs wrapped in a strip of grey rag. He set the rag on the flags beside the drain, and he did not unwrap it yet.
Tobin stood on the bottom step with his hands in his sleeves. He could see the shape under the rag. He could see the grey feather at one end, pressed flat.
“Sparrow,” said Tobin.
“Yes,” said Calen.
“It has a grey feather on the left wing.” Tobin waited.
“I am calling it that for now. Sparrow. So I know which one.”
