At one point, all the hope had drained out of his eyes.

It was like watching a bird die.

At least, Katrina felt that way.

She'd driven home from work, alone. On the way, she ran over a bird; one of those that look the same as all the others, brown, white, something, can't remember; one of those that never ranks high in the birdwatcher's book; one of those that's never thought important.

As the brakes pinched and the car slid to a stop and Katrina bolted from the car and the sky was blue; why, that bird had never been more important in his life.

There was nothing she could do. It twitched.

There was no blood. It was like a crumpled piece of newspaper. A sick, sad, crumpled piece of newspaper.

She thought about trying to unfold him, but tasted bile at the thought. A bird's bones are hollow. It would be like bending broken straws.

So she watched it die. It didn't take long. The twitching stopped, it relaxed, looked more like a dead bird, less like newspaper.

She got in the car, drove home, opened her veins, for the bird, for Kip.