Chapter 6
A Conversation with Karma Brown
Remember upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.
—Alexander the Great
I wake with a start thanks to a loud bang against the window on my side of the bed. Without looking I know what’s happened—another bird, tricked by the clear glass of our balcony windows, has soared to its death and snapped me out of my slumber.
Using my fingertips I pull my phone off the nightstand and squint at the clock icon. When I see the time I sit straight up, pulling the covers off Ryan, who groans with annoyance. “Ryan. We have to get up.”
“Five more minutes,” Ryan mumbles, his back to me as he tries to pull the duvet back up over his shoulders.
I nudge him again, tug at the duvet. “Get up. We’re late.”
He rolls toward me, and I hold my phone in front of him. He lets out a quiet string of curse words. “Didn’t you set your alarm?”
“Didn’t you?” I grumble, throwing the duvet off my legs but still not getting out of bed. I feel leaden, like in the night someone replaced my blood with molasses, and my head hurts. Ryan is out of bed and has already started the shower, and my mind drifts again to the bird. Maybe it was only stunned and has already flown away.
I place my feet gingerly on the floor, wiggling some warmth into my toes. Flicking on the balcony light I glance down. Damn. The bird’s neck is torqued at a distressing angle, its feathers ruffling with the breeze, but otherwise there’s no movement in its tiny body.
I contemplate the best way to get rid of it without upsetting Audrey. After the last one broke its neck, a vibrant yellow finch that Audrey buried under our hydrangeas, Ryan refused to let her soap all the windows in the house. So she made glass gel clings, thanks to the internet and twenty dollars of gelatin from the bulk store and a determination to save every last neighborhood bird. I think of the gel clings inside my nightstand drawer, likely sticking to whatever else I’d forgotten about in there, and whisper an apology to the bird.
Guilt getting the better of me, I’m about to grab the clings and put them up when the coffee timer beeps a floor below. With sudden clarity I realize what else I’ve forgotten to do. I race down the stairs and groan when I get to the kitchen. The coffeemaker is surrounded by a spreading pool of black liquid and coffee grounds, cascading over the counter’s lip and on to