She was devastated when she found out pecan was pronounced differently. It was things like that which got to her most; her seemingly obvious knowledge ending up wrong.

In fourth grade she had what she believed was a broken wind-up bird; it was supposed to flap it wings and nod its head when you turned his crank left, but he never would. He preferred to stay still, she thought.

In eleventh grade, she was in love until the boy showed her that the bird came alive when turned to the right. She asked him to leave, and never spoke to him again. She threw out the wind-up bird the next morning.

“It’s p’cahn, not pee-can.” She pushed herself from the table, and adjusted the muscles in her legs to form a new pattern of tension.

She stood and scanned for an exit.

“Ma’am, it’s to the right.”