The yard glistens after the rain. Grandpa kneels in the wet dirt, holding up the feeder. A box of silver screws sits in the mud beside him. Marlo reaches for the broken wood.
Marlo holds the feeder up. The crack runs all the way across the bottom, like a big jagged bite. His small finger traces the splintered edge.
Grandpa points at the screws in the mud. "Fix it with me," he says. Two silver screws tumble out into the wet grass.
Marlo pushes the broken piece back. Wobble. He pushes again. Click. Now the screw goes skrrt, skrrt, skrrt—spinning and spinning, not stopping.
"It's STUCK!" Marlo scrunches his whole face, eyes squeezed tight. Grandpa's rough thumb pats the top of his head, slow and steady. "One more."
Grandpa tightens the last bolt with a quick twist. Together they lift the feeder up onto the low branch. It sways once, wobbles, then holds still.
Marlo crouches beside the feeder, knees on the wet grass. He waits. The branch creaks. Creak. Then a tiny red breast drops right onto the edge.
The robin tilts its head. Pounces on a seed. Crack. Crack. Crack. It hops from seed to seed, picking them up one by one.
Marlo looks at Grandpa's hands, then at the tiny bird. "I love you," he says. Grandpa nods, eyes still on the robin. The branch creaks slow.
Marlo tucks his chin into his collar and walks to the back door. At the threshold, he stops. One small wave to the robin. "Bye-bye," he whispers, fingers curling tight into his shirt.
