This time it is the patient aunt of an old best friend who houses her. Unaware she's watching him: Come, I'll drive you home, he tells her, looking back. They sit the found bird in pages from National Geographic, on photos of Kabul in twilight, car headlights only now brighter than the dimming, pink sky, the focal length narrow, the image almost orthographic. The same image as the photographs produced by the camera he gave her. She loves that magazine. She used to read it as a child. "In my magazine nook in the shed," she smiles shrinkingly. "Of course you did". Unwelcome coolth, or welcome, guiding them into the car. He plays Crazy Girls by Babyxsosa on his phone, it sat in his cupholder. He twists his key and the car starts. The wind picking up a little outside. A change in seasons. They found the bird in the garden of the room where she was staying. Its noises were midnightly. They kept it in the car.

One night trying to escape its beak penetrated the small triangular quarterpanel glass and got stuck, hanging like that, beak spiking the glass, levitating, framed in grey plastic. Found in the morning. Foggy and hurried. Mis-remembering the keys.