Sometime over the summer， the pigeons had come back.
Carl Burns sat at his desk waiting for class to begin on
the first day of the fall semester， and he could hear them in the
attic above his head， doing whatever it was that they did up
there. It sounded to him as if they were scurrying around on
the rafters， running up and down them， and he could almost
hear the sound their little toes， or claws， or talons， or what-
ever the hell it was that birds had， made on the wood as they
raced around madly in the musty dark.
Now and then there would be a sudden flurry of wings as
one of them took to the air， and because it was very dark up
there， the fluttering might be followed by the soft sound they
made when one of them collided with the beams that held up
the roof.
When that happened， at least if the bird hit hard enough
to addle its inconsiderable brain， it would plummet down to
the acoustical tile in the false ceiling and land with a thud that
dislodged a sizable amount of dirt and dust， not to mention
an occasional dab of what Burns was certain must be pigeon
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