“JAMES HALE sat at a side-street noodle-stall. The stall was set-up underneath the shade of a row of fruit trees. He watched a pair of pigeons courting beneath a fig tree. The male’s tail feathers were pushed up in self-promotion and his plumage was arrogantly puffed up. He danced his elaborate dance of love. The female didn’t look impressed. She turned her back to him. Birds were like gangster rappers, Hale thought. They sang songs about how tough they were and how many other birds they’d nested. They were egomaniacs with inferiority complexes. Posers in a leafy street. The bastards flew at the first sign of danger. They couldn’t make it on the ground. Hale hated birds with their merry chirps and their flimsy nests. Tweet. Tweet. Fucking. Tweet. The only thing Hale admired about them was the fact that they could fly. That would be cool. Right now, flying would be good.”

“Farewell, farewell," said the swallow, with a heavy heart, as he left the warm countries, to fly back into Denmark. There he had a nest over the window of a house in which dwelt the writer of fairy tales. The swallow sang "Tweet, tweet," and from his song came the whole story.”

“My mother, she killed me,My father, he ate me,My sister Marlene,Gathered all my bones,Tied them in a silken scarf,Laid them beneath the juniper tree,Tweet, tweet, what a beautiful bird am I.”

“Hale looked at the dead man. His baseball cap had fallen from what remained of his head. A head that was once bald beneath that baseball cap. That didn’t matter now. All that remained was meat. Hale guessed that’s all they ever were. Meat. Selfish and stupid animals. The trick was to be the one standing. Hale stepped over the dead man. Walked through the beaded curtain. Through the restaurant out the door and into the China Town circus.”

“What is it?" When Kat's voice finally came into Hale's ear, it was cold and steady and even. All tease was gone. If she was angry at him for standing her up, she didn't show it. she just said, "Tell me what's going on.""Party crashers," Hale whispered. He watched Macey watching him. "Five, and they brought toys.""Guns?" Kat guessed."Big ones," Hale said. "You know this is what you get for doing a favor for your mother.""I know," Hale admitted."What are they after?" Kat asked."Hard to say," Hale said; again, he eyed the room."Who is that?" Macey asked."The reason I wasn't flirting with you,"Hale told her.”

“The leaves were still on the trees, but were becoming dry, perched like birds ready to fly off.”