Free The Girl Who Fell from the Sky by Heidi W. Durrow

lost because of your shit, Shorty?”
    Brick stayed silent.
    “Now you got nothing to say, huh?” The man held his arm tighter, and Brick could feel the ring press into his flesh. “Yo, Shorty. Anybody ask again you tell them the truth. Tell them what I’m telling you. I didn’t see nothing. Yeah, I was on that roof scoping out new places for my cages. And maybe I’m the one who broke the lock. But that was months ago, and that crazy bitch was gonna jump anyhow.”
    Muddy and wet, Brick sat still even after the pigeon man let him go. He sat still even after the pigeon man walked away. Since the moment Brick said his new name he had not thought of the story that created it. He thought of it now.

Roger
    “I hope she’s gonna get better.” The boy’s voice startled him awake. Roger had been sleeping with his head bent over Rachel’s bed. He looked up and then stood and saluted the boy.
    “How’s it going?” Roger ushered Brick into the room. The mud was still wet on the boy’s jeans.
    “Little wet outside, huh?” Roger said. “Here.” He took his jacket from the back of the chair and wrapped it around Brick like a cape. “Better?”
    Roger wanted to erase yesterday. He wanted to hug the boy, but instead he patted his arm and said, “They say she’s doing better.”
    “Maybe it’s the song that’s making her better,” Brick said.
    Roger swallowed audibly and turned away.
    “Sir?” Brick asked.
    Roger’s stare into space was unbroken.
    “I didn’t see a man,” Brick said.
    “What? Where?”
    “On the roof.” Brick took from his pocket the newspaper folded in neat squares. He handed it to Roger, who read only as far as the headline.
    “I don’t want to read that shit.” Roger thrust the paper back at Brick.
    “I said I saw a man,” Brick said. “But I didn’t. But I think maybe there was a man there.”
    “I don’t give a good goddamn what you think,” Roger said. “You a detective now? You think some man did it? Maybe you did it. Maybe I did it. Maybe I was the man. The police came here asking me the same shit. You know what I care about?” He paused. “I care about my little girl getting better—if she gets out of here—keeping her safe from everything. Including me.”
R OGER AND N ELLA held their wedding on a Saturday at a brick red Lutheran church in her Danish hometown, where it was legal for coloreds and whites to marry. Not much later they had a son. Charles. Roger felt like he’d done something. Taken hold of something in the world even if it wasn’t himself. He loved that boy. But the Little Man, as Roger called him, was broken. There was nothing exactly wrong with him. Ten fingers. Ten toes. He had the necessary parts and his mind was alert. But he was always sick. His stomach hurt. His nose bled without reason. His palms were always sweaty since he ranthree degrees hotter than everyone else. And his eyes had the dark circles of a thirty-five-year-old man.
    At first Roger thought he could talk Little Man into being stronger. “Wasn’t it just you and the goose?” He held Little Man on his lap.
    “N-n-no, Pop,” Little Man would say, pretending to struggle to get away.
    “Now, you don’t even remember being there, do you? I remember. I remember that night you were born. Your mother was eating and drinking like no tomorrow. You see she never lost those pounds you put on her, don’t you? You’re the one gave your mama a nice black girl’s ass.”
    “Roger? What are you saying?” Nella would call to “the boys” from the kitchen, her accent still heavy.
    “Yeah, now you, Little Man, you stronger than you think. Now, as I recall, it was you or that goose your mother was eating. So you came right on out. Feet first.”
    “N-n-no, Pop,” Little Man would giggle and try to tickle Roger at the waist.
    “Now, you remember. You’re a Morse. The Morse men are a strong bunch.” Roger would pick up Little Man then and hold him in the air, jostling him.
    “Put me