Theodore sat deeply, silently, attentively within the old avocado tree, on a low, horizontal limb, ensconced by so many shades of green and brown and gray that all other colors were imaginary. Various, unseen atomies skittered beneath the floor of desiccated leaves; and a murder of crows squabbled and clicked their talons along the high rafters. Through a small fluttering window in the green, the actual house was visible, with its roof of interlocking red tile and peach stucco, but Theo preferred this spot to any of all possible corners within that edifice and would miss this tree as home. A Mayflower truck sat in the drive, the ship on its side sailing east. Knowing this was his last time under the verdant canopy of childhood, Theo climbed higher, removed a small pocketknife from his jeans, and carved something deeply, silently, attentively into the gray bark.