Larry knew the bird was dead. He'd always known it, though everyone thought that he didn't. They figured that it was another symptom of his "illness;" his blessed madness. Maybe knowing- that was the symptom. Just like he knew his mother was dead. They thought that he hadn't figured that one out either,but he knew. He wasn't dense.
     As long as he kept asking for her, kept looking for her, and talking about her, they would leave him alone, so he could think. He thought a lot.
     Looking around the room now, he realized that everyone had mysteriously disappeared. The chairs that looked so deceptively comfortable sat like gaudy sentinels in an odd circle around a huge TV The spots on the white stain-proof carpet mocked the sterileness of the room. Larry could smell sour milk and the sweet stench of decaying food. Someone must have hidden their lunch, or was it supper? Breakfast? He couldn't remember sleeping. Maybe they forgot to tell him; sometimes they did that. He tilted his head, listening to his dead bird. The corridors echoed with silent whispers. He knew they were talking about something important, but he couldn't remember what. He couldn't quite make it out.
     He stood up and walked to a window. "Pretty bird, pretty bird," he looked over his shoulder at the dead bird. "Pretty bird."
     "You're so pretty. They don�t think I know. I know though." He paused, listening.
     "The ghosts, they�re ghosts, aren't they, baby bird? They talk to me every day. They tell me important things." He stared at a corner of the ceiling, concentrating hard. "I don't understand what they say to me. It's important."
     "Look out the window, at the pretty view. The flowers are pretty. I love roses. Red roses. Like blood. Like momma. They think that I don't know. That I don't understand." He paused again, watched the sunlight from the window move across the floor.
     "But I do. I know."
     Shadows moved around the room, chittering to each other. Vague outlines of nothing. And they were talking, whispering to him, a twitch in the back of his mind. Larry shook his head. he wanted the feeling of disquiet to go away. He walked back over to the bird cage, and reached in to pet the bird. Then, realizing that he was hungry, he sniffed again.
     The hidden meal was behind a heater. He looked at it, touched it. It stank, had started to rot. He touched what seemed to be a piece of bread. It was covered with green mold, like a sandwich spread. He took a small piece with no mold on it, and almost tasted it. Then he looked over at his bird. He took the tray with the food on it over to the empty nurse station and put it down. Here, the shadows were heavier. They were more urgent, crowding around him. He brushed them away impatiently and went to sit by his bird again. He was still hungry. Maybe he had missed lunch again. Or was it supper? He didn't care. He was hungry. The smell of food was in the air. He went into the bathroom and washed his hands. His voice, as he spoke, was strangely muted in the empty bathroom. Echoes of non-voices reverberated from the tile walls. He ignored them, spoke to himself.
     "Wash my hands, they won't come clean. Blood, red like blood. Won't come clean."
     "Decay, mold in the food. Don't eat it. Wash it off. The bird is dead. I know it's dead. They don't know that I know. Momma, where are you? Come and get me, won't you take me home?" He began to sing, low and muttery.
     "Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home." He stopped, suddenly. The room was quiet, the shadows gone. He found, quite by mistake, that he missed them. He left the bathroom and found that they were still in the rec. room. The shadows were thicker now, the whispers louder. He could almost hear words. He sat down by his bird cage, and found that a tray with food on it sat on the table in front of him. He did not bother to wonder why there was food, with no one to make it, to bring it. He reached toward the food, and picked up a piece with his fingers, and the shadows tensed. Conscious of this, he put the piece down and picked up a fork, and they relaxed again.
     After he ate, he put his tray on the desk of the shadow-filled nurse's station. Then he walked back over to the bird cage. The nice thing about having a dead bird for a pet was you never really had to clean its cage. But sometimes, just for fun, or if he was extremely bored, like he was now, he would clean the cage anyway. He reached in and took out the bird, setting it on the arm of the couch, and proceeded to clean the cage thoroughly. He emptied the uneaten seeds and the untouched water, and refilled them carefully. Then he changed the newspapers at the bottom of the cage, and put his bird back into the cage. He felt the shadows watch him, briefly, then they drifted out of his awareness again.
     After he was done, he looked down at his clothes. Realizing that he couldn't recall when he'd changed them last, he got up and went to his room. At least, he thought that it might have been his room. He couldn't quite remember at the moment.
     He went to the dresser against the wall opposite him, and opened the top drawer, where he kept his shirts. There were no shirts, only socks and underwear. He looked up, angry at whoever had moved his things, and he became aware of a pressure on his arm. One of the shadows had touched him, was holding his arm now. He jerked away.
     "No! Go away!" He shouted at the shadow. "What do you want? Where's my momma?"
     The shadow murmured back, then spoke. It was asking him, cajoling him. "This isn't your room, Larry. Come to your room. It's over here."
     Surprised to hear it speak, Larry stared at it, but then shook his head. "It's my imagination," he thought. "Shadows don't talk." He let it guide him out of the room anyway, and into his own room, which he recognized now. He didn't know why he had thought the other room was his. They looked nothing alike. He got dressed in clean clothes after the shadow left, and then picked up a picture of his mamma. "Pretty bird, pretty bird. Where's momma? Too much blood. Pretty bird," he spoke to the picture.
     After a few minutes, he put the picture down and walked back to the rec. room. He was vaguely surprised to see everyone there, just as if they had never left. He was a little upset that they had left with out him, probably gone somewhere fun with out him. He smiled a little, to himself, and walked over to the nurse's station. "Have you seen my momma? When is she going to come visit me?" The nurse got an odd expression on her face for an instant, then it was gone.
     "No, Larry," she smiled at him indulgently. "Your momma's not going to visit you. She can't, remember? She's gone."
     Larry faked confusion. "No, she's not. She talked to me on the phone just the other day. Said she was going to come and get me. Where is she? She said she was going to take me home. When do I get to go home?"
     The nurse got up and came around the counter of the nurses' station. She put a hand on his arm and guided him over to his chair, next to his bird. "Larry, your momma's dead. You remember, don't you?"
     He shook his head violently. "No, no. She's not, she's coming to get me." He pushed her away and turned to talk to his bird.
     Larry knew the bird was dead. He'd always known it, though everyone thought that he didn't.