covered his ears. “That’s a lot of dead birds.”
“Far too many,” Felk agreed. “That’s why we keep trying to learn more.”
Energetically, Felk led them down a long hall. Sam increased his pace to keep up.
“Look, Dr. Felk, it’s very kind of you to take the time with us. But you must be busy—”
“I’m perfectly capable of managing my schedule, thank you for your concern,” Felk said. “I’ve got plenty of time for a bright boy like your son, who shows enough sense to take an interest in birds. They’re our most highly evolved species, you know.”
Sam stopped short. Linda read chagrin on his face. Felk suddenly stopped, too, then pulled out a key ring, inserting one in a door with “Ornithology Archives” etched in a frosted glass pane.
“Here we are,” he said, swinging it open.
Deborah turned on the radio as Christopher drove northward. The long-term parking lot at LaGuardia was an hour of silence behind them.
“. . . the probable cause of the crash is assumed to be a bird strike. The leading cause of crashes occurring within five minutes of takeoff or landing, these strikes are unpredictable. We’ll speak with an expert on bird strikes at the FAA after . . .”
Quickly, she turned it back off. The crash was now history. She wanted to think about the future.
“It’ll be Ramsey,” Christopher turned the radio back on.
“What?”
“Ted Ramsey. The FAA expert on bird strikes. We’ve had him up a few times. Peter’s hoping to get some grant money out of him.”
“Christopher, I really don’t want to hear any more about the crash.”
“Just this interview, Deborah.”
The anchor returned. “We’d like to welcome Ted Ramsey of the FAA, an expert on bird strikes.”
“I knew it.” Christopher smiled triumphantly and turned up the volume.
Sighing, Deborah tuned it out, turning her gaze to the window. It was a brilliant winter day, the sun glinting off the snow-covered landscape. Despite the sun, the day was all hard, rigid edges—the flat plane of cold glass through which the black road sliced through stark white fields that met a cloudless, fiercely blue sky at the unyielding line of the horizon.
The view mirrored the boundaries confining her own future. Forty-two years old, going on forty-three. Two failed IVF cycles. Three embryos left. A husband drawing a line in the sand. Deborah sighed again as Christopher snapped off the radio.
“Interesting.”
“What’s that?” asked Deborah, glad to turn away from the window.
“Ted’s theory. That as planes age, the metal fatigue of the engines makes them more vulnerable to damage in strikes.”
“Metal fatigue. I always thought that was such a strange phrase,” Deborah said. “Kind of scary, really.”
“How so?”
“It sounds like a contradiction. Metal’s solid. Hard. It’s not supposed to wear out.”
“Everything wears out, eventually.”
“Ithaca 100 miles.” The road sign flashed past the window, reminding Deborah that their regular lives lay ahead. She cleared her throat. “It feels like we’re not talking about the engine anymore.”
“Aren’t we?”
“I mean, that’s how you sounded in the hotel, talking about the IVF. Worn out. Fatigued.”
“Definitely,” he said without hesitating.
“So it’s not that you’ve changed your mind about wanting kids, really. You’re just worn down by the process?”
“I don’t know that you can separate the two things. And the first doesn’t seem worth the second.”
“But you’ve never really told me that before.”
“Not explicitly, maybe, but . . .”
“You said that it’s been my fixation, my preoccupation, with getting pregnant that bothered you the most.”
“Well, yeeess.” Christopher stretched out his words. “That and the time passing. I’m forty-five. You’re forty-two. The risks keep getting higher at our ages.”
“You’re projecting that. Looking at the overall statistics and data, not at us as case
“Far too many,” Felk agreed. “That’s why we keep trying to learn more.”
Energetically, Felk led them down a long hall. Sam increased his pace to keep up.
“Look, Dr. Felk, it’s very kind of you to take the time with us. But you must be busy—”
“I’m perfectly capable of managing my schedule, thank you for your concern,” Felk said. “I’ve got plenty of time for a bright boy like your son, who shows enough sense to take an interest in birds. They’re our most highly evolved species, you know.”
Sam stopped short. Linda read chagrin on his face. Felk suddenly stopped, too, then pulled out a key ring, inserting one in a door with “Ornithology Archives” etched in a frosted glass pane.
“Here we are,” he said, swinging it open.
Deborah turned on the radio as Christopher drove northward. The long-term parking lot at LaGuardia was an hour of silence behind them.
“. . . the probable cause of the crash is assumed to be a bird strike. The leading cause of crashes occurring within five minutes of takeoff or landing, these strikes are unpredictable. We’ll speak with an expert on bird strikes at the FAA after . . .”
Quickly, she turned it back off. The crash was now history. She wanted to think about the future.
“It’ll be Ramsey,” Christopher turned the radio back on.
“What?”
“Ted Ramsey. The FAA expert on bird strikes. We’ve had him up a few times. Peter’s hoping to get some grant money out of him.”
“Christopher, I really don’t want to hear any more about the crash.”
“Just this interview, Deborah.”
The anchor returned. “We’d like to welcome Ted Ramsey of the FAA, an expert on bird strikes.”
“I knew it.” Christopher smiled triumphantly and turned up the volume.
Sighing, Deborah tuned it out, turning her gaze to the window. It was a brilliant winter day, the sun glinting off the snow-covered landscape. Despite the sun, the day was all hard, rigid edges—the flat plane of cold glass through which the black road sliced through stark white fields that met a cloudless, fiercely blue sky at the unyielding line of the horizon.
The view mirrored the boundaries confining her own future. Forty-two years old, going on forty-three. Two failed IVF cycles. Three embryos left. A husband drawing a line in the sand. Deborah sighed again as Christopher snapped off the radio.
“Interesting.”
“What’s that?” asked Deborah, glad to turn away from the window.
“Ted’s theory. That as planes age, the metal fatigue of the engines makes them more vulnerable to damage in strikes.”
“Metal fatigue. I always thought that was such a strange phrase,” Deborah said. “Kind of scary, really.”
“How so?”
“It sounds like a contradiction. Metal’s solid. Hard. It’s not supposed to wear out.”
“Everything wears out, eventually.”
“Ithaca 100 miles.” The road sign flashed past the window, reminding Deborah that their regular lives lay ahead. She cleared her throat. “It feels like we’re not talking about the engine anymore.”
“Aren’t we?”
“I mean, that’s how you sounded in the hotel, talking about the IVF. Worn out. Fatigued.”
“Definitely,” he said without hesitating.
“So it’s not that you’ve changed your mind about wanting kids, really. You’re just worn down by the process?”
“I don’t know that you can separate the two things. And the first doesn’t seem worth the second.”
“But you’ve never really told me that before.”
“Not explicitly, maybe, but . . .”
“You said that it’s been my fixation, my preoccupation, with getting pregnant that bothered you the most.”
“Well, yeeess.” Christopher stretched out his words. “That and the time passing. I’m forty-five. You’re forty-two. The risks keep getting higher at our ages.”
“You’re projecting that. Looking at the overall statistics and data, not at us as case
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