"Katrina!"

Nothing.

"Katrina!"

A muffled yell from across the house.

Kip grumbled, stood up, shook out his hair, walked down the hall.

"Katrina?"

"What?" It was a grating noise, seesaw, sand in the joints.

"Have you seen my wallet?"

"No."

He walked into the bedroom. Katrina was looking at herself in the mirror. Kip was struck by how thin she was. It was like a bamboo stick had eaten his wife.

"Don't stare at yourself too long. The mirror'll get tired of it."

An awkwardly pregnant silence ensued.

Kip shuffled back down the hall, sat back down in his chair, clicked back on the TV. Falcons were playing the Eagles, today.

"War of the Birds!"

An overly enthusiastic sportscaster was down on the field, gesturing wildly at the teams on either side of the field, a mic stuck in his face, his voice booming across the stadium, the crowd booming back.

"Which Birds' are gonna wind up dead?"

The crowd cheered louder.