He was on the floor of his cage, his beady eyes still open. His feathers the color of used confetti.

Myrna was the one who found him, which was only fitting, of course. They had come to the aviary within a week of each other, fourteen years ago, before her hair was gray and before he began refusing to speak for any of us except her. She was sobbing when Heather and Lucy arrived. Combined, their ages didn’t add up to Myrna’s, but Heather moonlighted as an empath and Lucy spoke almost as little as Orlando, so they were probably the best equipped of any of us to handle the situation.

By the time Norma entered—last, as she often was—we were all crying, some of us more in solidarity than sadness, but there are worse offenses in a menagerie than crocodile tears. We shuttered his exhibit for the day and did not publicize a reason. At breaks, over lunch, in lulls between the tides of visitors, we discussed an impromptu funeral the way moviegoers whisper while the credits roll, shuffling out of the theater, hushed, dazed by the light and reality.

“Does anyone have a candle?” “We don’t need a candle.” “Heather, maybe.” “In my car. It’s lavender though.” “And?” “Isn’t Sharon allergic?” “We don’t need a candle.” “Where is he now?” “What time tonight?” “In his cage still, I think.” “Unless Myrna moved him.” “But do birds go to heaven?” “Why not?” “Does anything go to heaven?” “Gia. Don’t.” “Not now, Gia.” “Gia.” “Sorry.” “He’s in his cage.” “And in some place better, too, I think.” “What time tonight?” “After work.” “Sundown?” “I’ll run to Ingles and grab some wine.” “I need to be home by seven.” “Whiskey. Get whiskey.” “The ABC store is closer anyway.” “We can pay you back.” “My boys will tear apart the house if they don’t eat.” “Should we bury him?” “We can’t.” “Don’t touch him.” “He’s meant to go to some lab.” “They’ll dissect him.” “No!” “Fuck them.” “Fuck everyone.” “I don’t want to say goodbye.” “Well, fuck everyone else.”

When Carla’s boyfriend left her, we swigged bourbon in the staff room, after hours, sharing spit from the bottle, prying secrets, feeling sixteen and drunk. The owls were hooting and Lisa, red, frizzy, hooted back. Of course, we still tease her. When Jean’s son shipped overseas, we began writing letters—new person, new letter, each week. We attended the services for Norma’s husband and Lena’s too, both taken by heart attacks. Norma said it was his time. Lena was thirty-one. Holidays, we still bring a pot pie and biscuits for her and the twins. Myrna broke her ankle taking out recycling. Andy’s mother lapsed into dementia. Sharon’s house was torched by the electrical fire. Gia collapsed one morning, sobbing, she wouldn’t say why.

It’s safe to say we’ve had a hard year.

Orlando was Ara Carolinensis, Carolina Macaw, the last of his species. The scientists who made monthly pilgrimages to the aviary said he had the emotional intelligence of a five-year-old. Most of us have raised children—Myrna wagered the bird had more empathy, and brains to match it, than her husband.

“I don’t know how to start. When Orlando first introduced himself to me? So long ago—it was before my grandson was born. Before Tom married, even. He said thank you each time I cleaned his cage. Perched on my shoulder. Like a—like a conscience. I used to come early to eat breakfast with him. That’s silly, isn’t it? Well, I don’t know. Just yesterday morning, he flew down and pecked my ankle. That little kiss of his. Where would we be, without him? The visitors, yes, the scientists. But where would we be? Here, yes. Maybe a little sadder? A little less kind? I would laugh less. It’s small, I know. But I need to take these moments to thank goodness, when it comes.”

We considered cremating Orlando—science be damned. Instead, one afternoon, two men with thinning hair and wire rims arrived from Duke. With gloved hands, they placed him in a cardboard box. Myrna cried again.

That’s all there is. Sunrise over the Atlantic. Scrubbing his cage to start the day, or because we always have. Things go extinct like that was the plan. The radio, scratchy, on the commute. Heather says we’re a scaffolding. She means for the world. Carla is kissing a new boy. The baby finches are hatching and then mewling and then flying. Sometimes the air conditioner cuts out and we can hear ourselves think. Drop the kids at school. Buy a pumpkin in October. Sharon is rebuilding. We’re all still here, together. Punching in and then punching out, pushing at the circumference of the world as it tightens to a knot.

Peter Schlachte is a writer based in Washington, D.C. by way of North Carolina.