Rufus is right. I know he’s right. No more arguing. “It’s going to take me some time to get where you are with this. I don’t become fearless just because I know my options are do something and die versus do nothing and still die.” He doesn’t remind me that we don’t have a whole lot of time. “I have to say goodbye to my dad and my best friend.” I walk toward the 110th Street subway station.
“We can do that,” Rufus says. “I have nothing I’m gunning to do. I had my funeral and that didn’t exactly go as planned. Not really expecting a do-over, though.”
I’m not surprised someone so boldly living his End Day had a funeral. I’m sure he had more than two people to say goodbye to.
“What happened?” I say.
“Nonsense.” Rufus doesn’t elaborate.
I’m looking both ways, getting ready to cross the street, when I spot a dead bird in the road, its small shadow cast from a bodega’s lit awning. The bird has been flattened; its severed head is a couple inches away. I think it was run down by a car and then split by a bike—hopefully not Rufus’s. This bird definitely didn’t receive an alert telling it that it would die tonight, or maybe yesterday, or the day before, though I like to imagine the driver that killed it at least saw the bird and honked their horn. But maybe that warning wouldn’t have mattered.
Rufus sees the bird too. “That sucks.”
“We need to get it out of the street.” I look around for something to scoop it up with; I know I shouldn’t touch it with my bare hands.
“Say what?”
“I don’t have this dead-is-dead-so-just-walk-away attitude,” I say.
“I definitely don’t have this ‘dead-is-dead-so-just-walk-away attitude’ either,” Rufus says, an edge to his voice.
I need to check myself. “I’m sorry. Again.” I quit my hunt. “Here’s the thing. When I was in third grade, I was playing outside in the rain when a baby bird fell out of its nest. I caught every second of it: the moment the bird leapt off the edge of the nest, spread its wings, and fell. The way its eyes darted around for help. Its leg broke on impact, and it couldn’t drag itself to shelter, so the rain was pummeling it.”
“That bird had some bad instincts, jumping out the tree like that,” Rufus says.
The bird dared to leave home, at least. “I was scared it was going to freeze to death or drown in a puddle, so I ran out and sat down on the ground with the bird, sort of shielding it with my legs, like a tower.” The cold wind got the best of us, and I had to take off from school the following Monday and Tuesday because I’d gotten really sick.
“What happened then?”
“I have no idea,” I admit. “I remember I got a cold and missed school, but I must’ve blocked out what happened to the bird. I think about it every now and again because I know I didn’t find a ladder and return it to its nest. Sucks to think I left it there to die in the rain.” I’ve often thought that helping that bird was my first act of kindness, something I did because I wanted to help another, and not because my dad or some teacher expected me to do it. “I can do better for this bird, though.”
Rufus looks at me, takes a deep breath, then turns his back and wheels his bike away from me. My chest tightens again, and it’s very possible I have some health problems I’m going to discover and die from today, but I’m hit with relief when Rufus parks his bike along the sidewalk, throwing down the kickstand with his foot. “Let me find you something for the bird,” he says. “Don’t touch it.”
I make sure no cars are coming from up the block.
Rufus returns with a discarded newspaper and hands it to me. “Best I can find.”
“Thanks.” I use the newspaper to scoop up the bird’s body and its severed head. I walk toward the community garden opposite the subway station, set right in between the basketball court and the playground.
Rufus appears beside me on his bike, pedaling slowly. “What are you doing with that?”
“Burying it.” I enter the garden and find a corner behind a tree, away from the spot where community gardeners have been planting fruit trees and flowers and making the world glow a little more. I kneel and place the newspaper down, nervous the head is going to roll away. Rufus hasn’t commented on it, but I feel the need to add, “I can’t just leave the bird out there to be tossed into a trash can or flattened by cars over and over and over.”