H is a piece of ladder. Or a short kid afraid he won’t grow. He gets his friends to pull on his arms and legs. There is a popping sound. It seems to him that after that, he begins to grow. The E is another piece of broken ladder. 1 is a stick. Never very many toys, but plenty of sticks. A rifle, a bow, a sword, a cane if he is wounded in the war. 7 rides his bike, coasting downhill with his feet off the pedals—Look at me, he yells, One hand! Wakes up in a hospital. His buddies, a 5, a 6 and a 3, all standing around the bed. Who are they? He does not recall their names. The smartass kid with his cap on backwards. The chubby one. The boy with the small waist and curves who looks like a girl. Back home, in his room, he plays detective. He can poke a skeleton key out of a keyhole; it falls on the newspaper he has placed under the door. Someone is dialing. He listens to the clicks of the dial, counting. H is four clicks. E is three. One click. Seven clicks. Night comes striding, dark, starless, cold. And he remembers the cry of the peacocks.