BY Adrian Sobol
An envelope arrives. Inside, there is a small note, folded in half. It reads: I’m sorry.
The next day, I receive a package. There is no return address. When I cut it open, a crow flies out. It
flits around the room until it perches on the edge of my tallest lamp. It spreads its wings. It watches
me cower and caws, like it's gloating. I wonder if a bird can feel pride.
I open a window, but it doesn’t move. I try to shoo it with a broom, and it just hops to another
ledge in the room. I try to bribe it by placing bread on the windowsill. The bird eats it, greedily, and
stares at me for the rest of the day.
When I try to sleep, the crow sits on the ceiling fan above my bed and drops coins on my face.
On Tuesday, another package arrives. When I cut it open, another crow flies out. I examine the box
to try to find any clues about the sender. There’s nothing. The two crows scream at each other. They
hop around from ledge to ledge, circling. They fight in the middle of the living room. Their feathers,
loose and black, float in the air like ash.
By Wednesday, I have three crows. Three packages and no idea why they’ve been sent to me. At
night, I watch them watching me. Their heads turn as I cross the room. They groom themselves and
stretch out like they’re getting comfortable. I start to think they may be scheming.
On Thursday, I discover one of the crows has been stealing trinkets. Buttons, caps, watch batteries.
Nails and screws pried from the furniture. My shelves are loose. Books tumble to the floor.
One of the crows has begun to construct a nest on the top of my floor lamp. I find rips in the couch
cushions. Pillows have the stuffing removed.
Soon, the house is a mess. Soon, the bedding is torn to shreds. One morning, I hear noises coming
from the kitchen cupboards. Glasses and plates knocking. Metal clanking. When I open the
cupboard, the birds sit there. Staring. Judging. As if I’m the one who has just been caught doing
something wrong. As if that would make a difference. They use their beaks to push shards of
porcelain and glass down onto the floor. The pieces fall from the cabinet and smash against the tile.
I try grabbing the crows, but they’re too fast. I try blasting music, but they ignore the noise.
I google how to get a bird out of your house.
I google what do crows want.
They say crows remember faces. That they can hold grudges. I’m hard pressed to know what I’ve
done. Or to whom.
I google what did I do wrong.
I try to leave, but I’m unable to find my car keys. I suspect the crows. When I try to look in one of
the nests, all three divebomb me from their separate corners. I’m cut and scratched, bleeding in
strange places, but I run and make it safely to the bathroom.
Crouched in the tub, I google, how to befriend a bird.
The first result says, Give it a name.
The second says, Pretend to be its favorite tree.
I google to see if anyone else is having this problem.
On YouTube, someone explains that, for a week straight, he’s been receiving unmarked boxes filled
with human hair. Another video tells the story of a kid who was blinded after opening a parcel filled
with light. In an unboxing video I find, a woman narrates for twenty minutes as she opens six
packages that arrived unexpectedly at her door. Each one is filled with a different kind of fire.
The comments on these videos are unsympathetic. The word hoax is a recurring theme.
I begin to wonder if I’m being punished. I think about the apology letter I got. I google how to tell if
an apology is sincere.
A few days later, after the crows have calmed down and stopped their attacks, another package
arrives. I decide to open it outside.
It’s a pair of sneakers I ordered. Allbirds. I laugh at first, but part of me, I’m surprised to discover, is
disappointed. The shoes are nice, but they don’t fly. Or hold grudges. I wonder if maybe it’s time to
reassess my relationship with omens.
I go inside, tear up a loaf of bread, and scatter it across the coffee table. The crows take turns eating.
I turn on the television.
On the news, they’re showing footage of a large plume of smoke—50 stories high, the reporter
says—enveloping the Eastern Seaboard. If it’s natural or chemical, no one knows for sure, but also,
no one seems worried. There’s footage of families picnicking in gasmasks. Joggers running through
the smoke. You still gotta live your life, you know? one person tells the reporter.
The plume is nowhere near me, but I look out the window, just in case. Instead, I see a delivery guy
leave a pile of packages outside my door. I want to talk to him, but he’s already gone. I look at all the
packages sitting there on my stoop.
I pick one up. It’s heavier than the other packages have been. The box shakes in my hands. I hold it
up to my ear. Something scratches against the sides.
I’m afraid to open it. But I’m also afraid of leaving whatever’s inside to die.
I’m sorry, I say. I’m sorry, I tell the package again, knowing that this is not enough.
Adrian Sobol is a Polish immigrant / musician / poet. He is the author of The Life of the Party is Harder to Find Until You're the Last One Around (Malarkey Books). He lives in Chicago.