Precious looked at Anna from behind that tattered curtain of hair, her eyes wary yet undeniably vindicated as she whispered—“…dick, and it went at it until it was like a worm that a fish chewed and left on the hook. I never saw a bird do that. And then it got real big—like a pheasant, only bigger and black, except for this place on its one wing where it was sorta greenish against the black and red. It flew around Inglass, looking at him, and then it…then it pooped on him, like he was a statue or something. It was so quiet out I heard it splat on his pants. And then it flew off that way…”—Precious raised her free hand in the direction where Anna had seen the tracks in the snow—“…and when it landed, it…it…oh. s**t, you won’t believe me, nobody will.” The girl’s voice lowered to an anguished
