'Dad, did you know wind is made by birds flapping their wings?' Jill glanced towards the
windows. 'Well,' laughed her father, 'It must be a parliament of magpies tonight, all waving in
unison.” Her father perched on the edge of Jill’s bed as if waiting to hear bad news. 'Or a grind
of blackbirds or an unkindness of ravens,' Jill said, her voice sticky and stretched like bubble
gum on a hot road.
'Did you make those up?' her father asked. 'No, Dad. It’s an unkindness of ravens, promise,
cross my heart, hope to…' the rest was cut short by a bout of coughing. Her father held a glass
of water to Jill’s lips; they were flaky and bloodless. Her father chewed his own lips, 'Hush, get
some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning', he said. He wanted to say much more, but the
words glopped together in his mouth. He tried to move them over his teeth like mouthwash, but
he couldn't spit them out, so he just repositioned the bucket closer to Jill's bed. As her father
stood up, Jill asked, 'Will there be pancakes for breakfast?' Her father smiled and said, 'If you
feel up to it. It would be great to get some solid food into you!'
The wind vibrated like malevolent whispers. Jill started chanting to block out the voice calling
her to leave. 'A parade of elephants, a tower of giraffes, a prickle of porcupines,' but nothing
could distract her from her craving. It had always been an animal that defied collective nouns.
She jumped up, inadvertently kicking the bucket as she left.
In the morning, Jill's father whistled as he beat the batter. Outside, a magpie flapped its wings,
and the wind screamed.
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