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impossible would it be for an old tired beak to snatch a piece of cotton? The Captain imagines being one of them, he conjures a horror story of marauding squirrels gorging on his eggs. His family is gone.
    The Captain has a dim appreciation for what he is. As a person, he thinks, I have the ability to willfully limit my exposure to the outside world. He can flip a small toggle switch near his brain. Following a tiny bit of sound, a hum, an invisible wall of hard plastic, similar to the force-shield used by astronauts on old television shows, appears and seals off the area. In other words, self-control.
    After eight hours of sleep the Captain can almost talk himself into believing that he’d never been born, that he was plagued only by his terrible imagination, that he’d never done anything wrong and he’s not a worthless human being. He finds it difficult to convince himself that he’s not just rotting away. Not a fast death, like all these birds that could die later today, but something slow and cruel.
    With eyes still closed, the Captain pictures an unusual event from the previous day: A pigeon flew at his car and slammed into the windshield.
    Just as he recalls the hollow feathery thump, his eyes open. He couldn’t help it. He let his guard down. Vigilance, no longer his strong suit. And there it is, the shock of the banal day with all its secret threats. Time to repeat everything he’s done before: boil water, make coffee. The doctor says no caffeine, so he does it for the smell, for the security, to pretend that the coast is clear. He shuffles outside to get the paper. He is not chained up. He is loose. Gravel feels sexy on the pads of his bare feet. If a neighbor were to suddenly materialize from an enclosure and address him with a hello, what’s up, he would do his best to answer by saying the words, nothing much, and repeat the what’s up question back to the neighbor because that is how people are greeting each other these days. He would also wave just in case his voice doesn’t travel far enough to reach their ears. But no one physically appears from behind a wall or sliding glass door, there are no neighbors on the street. It is a few minutes prior to noon on a Thursday and all the residents are at work, therefore he goes unnoticed. Another miracle. Occasionally the Captain thinks he’s speaking when he’s dead silent. He has no idea what he sounds like. Like a garbage disposal or rushing water or a trash can rolling down the street? Once a booming voice, now barely above a whisper. Should he urinate in the middle of the street? He does have to pee and this does cross his mind. He remains civilized, returns inside.
    The Captain inherited a lot of money from his parents when they died. He knew acquiring all that money would have a strange effect on him, and it has. This isn’t a smooth transition. The happiness factor, or what there was of it, has definitely subsided.
    Questions about getting out of his pajamas begin to pile up: Is it really a good idea? Is the Captain ready? What would he do once he took them off? Will a bath or shower be part of the day’s festivities? Does he respond well to warm water and soap? Are there clean clothes to wear? Will this transition be as difficult as all the others? He got the idea of getting out of his pajamas from the newspaper. The headline read, CIVILIANS, GET OUT OF PANAMA!
    He has become an outpatient in his own little ward, morgue, bedroom, bathroom, universe. Can he be trusted? Will he wander off? Is he truly ready for a change? Of bed sheets and life? Can he be trusted? Something unexpected could happen and that would disrupt the continuity. A door could swing open inviting in all forms of trouble.
    The Captain’s impulse to get out of pajamas was a positive sign. Just thinking about it seemed beyond anything he’d ever really considered since the inheritance went through, but it also made a certain kind of sense. He should be brave and just do it. But