The bird walked in. Not hopped. Walked. Like those city pigeons he had seen.
Walked across the windowsill onto the back of Palmers hand, strolled up his right arm, nipped at Palmers earlobe --"Ow!"--and hopped onto the top of Palmers head.
Pointy little toes were moving in his hair. It felt scatchy good.
Palmer yowled with laughter--just then his mother came in asking "What's so funny?" Palmer stiffened. He blurted, "Noyhing. Something on TV." She frowned. "Why is the window open? Its cold in here." He jumped and closed the window.
When Palmer returned to his room after dinner, he did not see the pigeon. The white glop on the floor had dried to powder. He kept looking, in the corners, under the bed. Finally he found the bird in the closet, on the high shelf.
He did his homework. He watched TV. He mounted Beetle Baily comics in his collection book. He ate his snack. He read two chapters of his book. He did everything he usually did on a school night, except he did it more quietly. And with a warm giggly, I've-got-a-secret feeling. And with a peek into the closet every five minutes.