The table is long. It stretches into the dark. You sit at the head. You do not wish to. But the chair is there. The plate is there. The bread is torn. You eat. You must eat. The bread is hard. It is dry. It tastes of dust. And of fear.

Around you, they laugh.

“More wine, Thomas,” says the man in the gray suit. He is Mr. Vane. He is the manager. He is the law. He is the wall.

You do not look at him. You look at the glass. The wine is red. It is thick. It moves slowly. Like blood. Like time.

“Drink, Thomas,” Vane says. His voice is soft. It is the softness of a blade being sharpened.

You drink. You burn. The heat spreads. It fills your chest. It fills your throat. It fills the space where your heart should be. But there is no heart there. There is only the bird.

The bird is in your hand.

It is small. It is brown. It is dead. It has been dead for three days. You found it by the river. It was gray. It was silent. It looked at you. You looked at it. You knew. You knew it was yours. You carried it home in your pocket. It weighed nothing. It weighed everything.

It is on the table now. It sits in the center of the white cloth. Its eyes are open. They are black. They are beads. They do not blink. They do not move. They stare. They judge.

“Is that a bird?” asks a woman. She is young. She is pretty. She wears a dress of blue silk. Her hair is like gold. She smiles. It is a cruel smile.

“It is a sparrow,” you say.

Your voice is quiet. It is steady. You have practiced. You have rehearsed this. In the mirror. In the dark. You spoke to the glass. You spoke to the air.

“Why?” Vane asks. He leans forward. His elbows are on the table. His hands are folded. He looks at the bird. He looks at you. He does not understand. He cannot understand. He is safe. He is warm. He is full.

“It is mine,” you say.

They laugh.

They laugh at you. They laugh at the bird. They laugh at the silence. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air. It cuts the wine. It cuts the bread.

“Thomas is joking,” says the young woman. She touches your arm. Her fingers are cold. “He is tired. He is cold. Look at him. He is shivering.”

You are not shivering. You are still. You are stone. You are root.

“I am not joking,” you say.

Vane stops. He stops laughing. He looks at you. His eyes are narrow. They are dark. He sees something. He sees the truth. Or he thinks he sees it. He sees a break. A crack. A flaw.

“We have a job for you,” Vane says. He does not look at the bird. He looks at you. “A new job. Better pay. More hours. You will not be the cleaner. You will be the clerk. You will sit in the office. You will have a desk. You will have a phone. You will be part of the firm.”

This is the bait. This is the hook. This is the lie.

You know it is a lie. You have known it for weeks. You have known it since the day they cut your hours. Since the day they changed the lock on your locker. Since the day you saw Vane taking the files from your desk. Since the day you saw him burning them in the trash can behind the warehouse.

But you are hungry. You are so hungry. The hunger is not in your stomach. It is in your soul. It is in your bones. It is in the bird.

“I accept,” you say.

The room goes quiet. The laughter dies. The silence is heavy. It presses down on you. It presses down on the bird.

Vane smiles. It is a small smile. It is a thin smile. It is the smile of a man who has caught a mouse.

“Good,” he says. “Good. We will start you on Monday.”

He stands up. He adjusts his tie. He looks at the bird. He looks at you. He walks away. He does not look back.

The others follow him. They walk out of the room. They walk into the night. They leave you alone. They leave you with the bird.

You sit. You do not move. You do not breathe. You wait.

The clock on the wall ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. It is loud. It is sharp. It is the sound of time running out.

You look at the bird.

You pick it up.

It is light. It is dry. Its feathers are stiff. You hold it in your hands. You close your fingers. You squeeze. You squeeze hard.

You want it to break. You want it to bleed. You want it to scream. You want it to live.

It does not.

It is dead.

You open your hand. The bird is still. It is whole. It is perfect. It is yours.

You think of your wife. Her name is Clara. She is at home. She is waiting. She is cold. She is afraid. She knows. She knows you are gone. She knows you are lost. She knows you are broken.

She loves you. It is instinct. It is primal. It is the only thing that is real. It is the only thing that remains.

You think of her face. In the dark. In the light. In the rain. In the snow. She looks at you. She does not judge. She does not ask. She just looks. She just waits.

You will go to her. You will go home. You will sit by the fire. You will hold her. You will not speak. You will not explain. You will not apologize.

You will just be.

You stand up.

The chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is loud. It echoes. It rings. It is the sound of an end.

You walk to the door. You open it. The night is cold. The air is sharp. It bites your face. It bites your skin. It bites your lungs.

You step out.

You close the door.

You are in the street. The street is empty. The street is dark. The street is long.

You walk.

You do not run. You do not look back. You do not look at the sky. You look at the ground. You look at your feet. You look at the bird in your hand.

You walk.

The town is small. The houses are low. The windows are dark. The streets are wet. The rain has stopped. The rain is coming. You can feel it. You can smell it. It is coming.

You walk.

You think of the job. The clerk. The desk. The phone. The lie.

You think of the bird. The sparrow. The dead thing. The living thing. The symbol. The truth.

You think of Clara.

You think of the hunger.

You think of the end.

You do not fight it. You do not resist it. You do not deny it. You accept it. You are defeated. You are broken. You are empty.

But you are free.

You reach the bridge. The river is below. The water is black. The water is fast. The water is cold.

You stop.

You look down.

You look at the bird.

You hold it over the water.

You do not throw it.

You do not.

You cannot.

It is yours. It is your mirror. It is your soul. It is your verdict.

You close your hand. You put it in your pocket.

You turn away from the river. You walk home.

You walk to the house. The house is small. The house is old. The house is dark.

You open the door.

Clara is on the couch. She is asleep. Her face is pale. Her lips are blue. She is cold.

You take off your coat. You take off your shoes. You take off your gloves.

You go to her. You sit beside her. You put your arm around her. You pull her close.

She wakes. She opens her eyes. She looks at you. She sees your face. She sees your hand. She sees the bird in your pocket.

She does not ask.

She does not.

She leans into you. She puts her head on your chest. She closes her eyes.

You hold her. You hold her tight. You hold her hard.

You breathe.

You are still.

The clock ticks.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The bird is in your pocket. It is cold. It is dead. It is yours.

You are home.

You are safe.

You are alone.

You are free.

The night is long. The night is dark. The night is yours.

You do not sleep. You do not wake. You do not move.

You just are.

You are the bird.

You are the stone.

You are the root.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the verdict.

You are the pale verdict.

You are the pale verdict.

You are the pale verdict.

You are.

You are.

You are.