“It’s a bird that we take down into the mines to warn us if there’s bad air,” I say. “What’s it do, die?” asks Johanna. “It stops singing first. That’s when you should get out. But if the air’s too bad, it dies, yes. And so do you.” I don’t want to talk about dying songbirds. They bring up thoughts of my father’s death and Rue’s death and Maysilee Donner’s death and my mother inheriting her songbird.
