Page 3

Another grey, dreary day. It always seemed to be grey and dreary, Harry thought to himself as he rounded a corner. He was on his way to see Bob — Mustafo Bob — and walked slowly, a to-go cup of coffee in his hand. Did the sun ever shine here? He wasn’t sure it ever shone on him.

twerperperp a pigeon sang.

Harry instinctively swerved under a restaurant canopy to avoid being bombed. It had happened once and ruined his best fedora.

twerperperp.

Maybe he’d be safe this time. He was pretty sure the birds weren’t actually out to get him — though he did keep an eye on them, just to be sure they weren’t about to dive-bomb.

Wait… was that pigeon wearing a hat?

Harry paused. Looked. Squinted. Yes, that pigeon was indeed wearing a hat — a fedora, much like his own. He scowled, puzzled, then turned and continued briskly on his way.

twerperperp.

Harry hurried.

twerperperp.

He glanced over his shoulder. Still there. Was this Agent Zee’s doing? Or Agent Zed’s? Or—what the hell—he scowled; he was confusing himself now.

The bird was wearing a hat.

Walking like a man on fire, Harry finally reached the highway underpass where Mustafo Bob lived and held court. Bob was up, tending his seemingly never-ending campfire in case someone — anyone — might come by and share it with him. Bob grinned a toothy grin at Harry. Harry thought that Bob could use a toothbrush.

“Bob!” Harry called as he hurried closer. “Did you see that bird?”

Bob looked at him like he’d just asked whether he knew he had feet.
“Any bird in particular, Harry?”

Harry turned to point, but the pigeon in question was gone. “A pigeon,” Harry stammered. “Wearing a hat. And following me.”

Bob took it in stride and scoffed.
“Harry,” he said gently, as though explaining a delicate subject to a child for the first time. “Birds aren’t even real.”