Below in the street, a boy scampered down the sidewalk along the tree lined avenue. His brown hair and blue jacket were tousled as the wind played at his back. The brown leather satchel slipped from his shoulder, but he continued towards home, his left fist clenching around the strap of his bag. With his right hand, he reached out a stick and strummed the wrought iron fence that encircled his yard, listening to the clickety-clack, clickety-clack as the stick bounced from bar to bar. The fence turned in on itself, leading the boy up to the door before it anchored to the dark red brick of the house. He dropped the stick and scrambled up the granite steps to the door. He knocked sharply then waited. His hands found their way to the peeling white paint on the door jam, and flicked of three square flecks. He ran backwards back to the sidewalk, looking up to the window above.
"Grandmama, Grandmama!" he called, "I'm home!"
In answer, the window spouted a rustle of feathers and the warbling of excited pigeons. The old woman opened the door and beckoned the child in.
