I found a bird.
He is broken. His wing is all crooked and he is fearful. I hope he isn’t more broken than he seems.
I have given him bread soaked in honey water, and I don’t know what to say to him, so I try to imagine nice, shiny, warm things that he might like, just in case he can read my mind.
I hope he is still alive in the morning.
I’ve named him Bertrand.
In fact, he was a good deal less broken than he seemed. This, I feel, explains his lack of gratitude