"We're going to have to ask you to leave, now."

"Erm," Kip said.

Mount Rushmore looked at him distastefully. His throat constricted more, and his strangled erm just became a strangle.

His head hit the floor with an exceedingly dull thud. The bluebirds finished cleaning the bones.

"Mr. Pilgrim, your request is formally denied."

At that very moment, something in Kip's brain broke. The tiny little hammer he'd been using to hit the black woman's eyes exploded into fourteen hundred bluebirds, and they grabbed bits of him in their sharp mouths, tearing, ripping, peeling back layer after layer.

It was natural that the bluebirds wanted to eat Kip alive. He'd done nothing to save them. It felt like they were swarming down his throat, but he wasn't quite sure. They'd pecked out his eyes, by then, and his body felt like it was on fire. The choking sensation was practically a relief.