“It attacked me.” Mark was coming closer now. I could hear him as he approached me from behind. I turned on him furiously, the panic lifting at last.

“Tell him you’re sorry.”

“It attacked me,” he said again, but he wasn’t really hearing me, he was staring at the little boy as he rocked on his heels and wept for his lost friend.

I couldn’t stand it anymore, watching him cry like that. Very slowly, I approached the boy, careful as if he were a butterfly that could be startled and flutter away. When I was close enough I dropped to a knee.

“We’re very sorry about your bird,” I said softly.

He didn’t look at me but I saw his hands sink deeper into the iridescent blue-green feathers as he hugged it, hard.

“Do you want us to talk to your… mom?” I looked at Dennis and shrugged, hoping I was right and the plain-faced woman we’d met earlier was the boy’s mother. “We can talk to her, if you want.”

“Fuck that, I’m getting out of here,” Mark said, then snapped his fingers. “The camera! Oh, shit, I’m getting a picture of this freak!”

“Mark!” I snapped my head up to look at him but he was already gone, running back to the car for his Polaroid. This was enough – more than enough – and I wouldn’t let it happen, I’d let too much happen already. “Dennis, do not let him take a picture, I am so god damn serious.”

Dennis nodded and headed off in Mark’s direction. I looked back and found the little boy watching me with wet brown eyes. His cries had tapered to sad sniffles but he was still rocking back and forth.

On impulse, I placed my hand gently on his little sweatered shoulder.

“I’m sure he was a good bird,” I said softly. He gave a shuddering sigh and nodded.

I tried to smile. There was a hot lump in my throat and I forced it down; it was like swallowing a rock. All this for a few beers.

For a moment I didn’t say anything. I just let him sit there, my hand on his shoulder, his dead peacock in his lap, trying to make sense of what this loss meant – what it could possibly mean that the bird wasn’t moving and would never move again, never make its alien yoo-yoo-yoo sound that was probably music to this little boy’s ears.

Then I heard footsteps. Mark was coming back, Dennis on his heels.

“I said no way,” Dennis was hissing.

“Shut the fuck up, this is ten times better than a stupid picture of us touching the door!” Mark trotted up and towered over me, the Polaroid camera in his hands. “Move, Pammy, I’m gonna snap a pic of the Bubblehead.”

I let go of the boy’s shoulder, who was staring up at Mark with an expression of fear and confusion, to turn and block him from view.

“You’re not taking a picture of him so you can show it off to your locker room buddies,” I whispered fiercely. “You already killed his pet, Mark, just leave him alone.”

“Pammy, I’ve about had it with your smart mouth tonight,” Mark said, just a little too loudly. “If Dennis won’t shut you up then I will. Move your ass.”

I began to straighten with the intent of taking the camera away from him when he shot a hand out and shoved me, hard. Caught off guard and off balance I went tumbling backwards into the little boy and his bird.

It all happened very fast: