The UPS truck kicked up dirt and gnawed on the gravel as it roared down the driveway.  A little blond head bobbed up and down in the yard as a scrawny-limbed girl was unsuccessfully trying to trap a flying insect between her two cupped hands.  The truck eased to a stop and its driver squinted as he watched her. The already deep crow’s feet around his eyes crackled across his skin, and he scratched his gray beard.  The muscles of his mouth twitched excitedly until he reprimanded himself, subduing them into stillness.  The little girl’s hair was the color and texture of corn silk and it trailed behind her like a graceful banner, even as she lurched and jumped gracelessly.  Calm down, he said to himself.  Don’t get too excited.

The driver pulled off his cap and smoothed the thin layer of hair on his head before replacing it.  He straightened his nametag, which spelled out SPARROW in large letters, and checked his teeth in the mirror to make sure they were clean.  They were perpetually stained yellow from too many cigarettes and cups of coffee, and too few dentist visits, but at least there was no food in them.  He was ready. Sparrow hopped out of the truck and retrieved the package from the back.  It was small but heavy.  The little girl had stopped chasing the bug and was eyeing him with her arms crossed as he approached.  Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent.  He could see deep blue veins on the side of her head, and her eyes had heavy dark circles under them like little bruised half-moons.  He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced a smile.

“Hiya, little lady!  Is your mother home?”

She nodded, and Sparrow climbed the steps to porch and reached out to ring the doorbell.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she said, her voice surprisingly deep for coming from such a frail-looking body.

He turned and looked at her.  “Oh, no?  Why not?”

The girl pointed at the house.  “Mom’s taking a nap, and no one is supposed to wake her under any circumstances,” she said, imitating her mother’s voice and wagging a scolding finger in the air.

Sparrow grunted slightly as he set the package down on the porch next to a large collection of empty beer bottles.  No wonder her mother needed a nap.  Sparrow stepped off the porch and into the yard, which was overgrown with summer parched grass.  He stood a few feet away from the girl, cocking his head to the side as he took her in

“Your name is Sparrow?  Like the bird?” she asked.  He nodded.  “You have a weird name.”

Sparrow chuckled and shrugged.  “My pop was a big bird watcher.  It was his favorite hobby.”

 She nodded.  “People say I have a weird name, too,” she said, looking down at her feet.  She started dig up some grass with the toe of her shoe.

“Oh yeah?  What’s your name?”

“Poppy.  My mom named me after the California state flower.

 “Well, the poppy just happens to be my favorite flower.  I think it’s a beautiful name.”

 Poppy raised her eyes and smiled.  Her teeth had come in crooked and with gaps like the shingles of a neglected house’s roof.  A feeling of tenderness for her bubbled and spread through his body like carbonation.  He turned and looked at the house behind him but saw that the shades were drawn.  He took a step closer to her and crouched down.

“Hey, do you want to play a game?”

Poppy nodded, her smile stretching even wider.

 “Ok.  It’s called ‘Turkey in the Straw.’  But I’m warning you: it’s a really hard game.  Do you think you’re up for the challenge?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not harder than the things I can do on the jungle gym at school,” Poppy said, putting her hands on her hips incredulously.  “I can do a flip off of the top of the money bars, and I even did a handstand for five whole minutes once.”

Sparrow feigned surprise, gasping and covering his mouth and letting his eyes grow wide.  “Well, I’ve got a real life acrobat standing in front of me!  This game will be a piece of cake for you!  Are you ready to play?”

Once again, Poppy nodded enthusiastically, and the wispy hairs that had escaped her ponytail gently stroked her face.  Sparrow stood up, reached into his pocket, and retrieved a silver harmonica, which he rubbed against his shirt to clear it of smudges. 

“Ok, Poppy.  The game is simple: I’m going to play a song on my harmonica, and you’re going to close your eyes and spin around and around until the music stops.  And then, you freeze and try not to fall over.”

Poppy thought for a moment.  “This game sounds kinda dumb.”

Sparrow forced a grin and a chuckle, his hand clenching the harmonica nervously.  “Well, don’t knock it ‘til you try it, kid!  It’s harder than it sounds, believe me.”

Poppy shrugged and nodded, moving to a spot in the yard where she would have plenty of space to spin around without hitting any stray shrubbery.  Sparrow raised the harmonica to his lips and began playing a few bars of “Turkey in the Straw” while Poppy spun around.  When the music stopped Poppy stood stock still, her arms out to the side like moth wings.  She smiled, her eyes still closed.

“That was way too easy,” she said, suppressing a giggle.

Sparrow took several steps closer to her, feeling his heart start to race.  He took a breath, slowing himself down, and raised the harmonica to his lips again.  This time, he played longer, and Poppy started to wobble like an unwieldy top as she spun, unable to keep her feet in one place while the whining notes of “Turkey in the Straw” seemed to cover her like a blanket.  When the music stopped she swayed a little, and laughter freely emanated from her thin little throat.

 “See?  It’s getting harder, isn’t it?”  Sparrow said, tiptoeing closer to her, silencing his footfalls as if she was an animal he didn’t want to startle.

“Ha ha, yeah!  Let’s do it again!”

Sparrow raised the harmonica to his lips and began playing “Turkey in the Straw,” faster and longer this time, moving closer to her as she spun, her hair whipping around and her arms flapping up and down like a baby bird.  This time when the music stopped, Poppy fell over, her laughter deep and punctuated by a shriek.  Sparrow laughed too, in spite of himself, and joined her on the ground.

 “The world is spinning!” Poppy yelled, her eyes still closed.  She grasped onto the grass with both hands and it crunched between her fingers.

 “You’d better hold on to something or you’ll fly off!” Sparrow said, inching his body closer to her and reaching into his pocket.  “Now, keep your eyes closed!”

Poppy followed his instructions and turned her head away from him, her chest palpating in breath, and her hair was next to Sparrow’s face.  He could smell its sun-warmed strands.  Poppy wiggled a bit, still laughing, but then became still as the dizziness wore off.  Sparrow would have to act quickly.  Little girls didn’t stay still for too long.

With the razor blade that he pulled out of his pocket, he sliced off a thin clump of hair from the underside of her ponytail.  She wouldn’t even miss it.  He did it quickly so that she didn’t feel anything, especially since the dizziness had distracted her.  The strands made a brittle sound as the blade cut through them.  He tucked his treasure and the blade into his pocket and rolled onto his back.

 “Ok, you can open your eyes now!” Sparrow said, and the two of them lay there together in the grass, watching the tufts of clouds move across the pale, summer scorched sky.

Upon arriving home, Sparrow always followed the same routine: he hung up his car keys and took down a different set of keys.  He poured some dry food into his cat’s bowl and scratched it briefly behind its ears as it ate.  Then, he went downstairs to where the little girl was waiting for him. The stairs creaked jarringly under his boots and he swatted away the fresh cobwebs as he walked through the basement to the pink door.  He always knocked first—a lifelong habit of his upon seeing a closed door—and then gingerly unlocked it, as if he was afraid he would wake her.

She was sitting just as he had left her: upright in a chair, her limbs rigid and spine straight, and her eyes closed like an eternally sleeping doll.  His very own doll.  Sparrow continued his evening routine: First, he dabbed at her skin with rose scented embalming fluid, which felt like old newsprint under the cloth.  Then, he dipped a cotton swab into the bottle and swabbed some extra fluid to the places on her face where the skin was starting to crack and peel.  After that, he applied blush with the softest horsehair brush and spread gloss over her lips—petal pink like their original color.  Then, he reapplied pancake makeup to her neck to cover the bruise that the garrote had made.  Finally, he retrieved Poppy’s hair from his pocket and ever so gently glued it to the girl’s scalp to cover the spot where her hair had fallen out.  Embalming fluid preserved the skin and tissue, but not the hair.

Sparrow admired his work and gently touched her cheek with his fingertips.  “Sweet dreams, my darling girl,” he said, his voice hovering just above a whisper.  She had always been his favorite customer along the delivery route whenever she was staying at her father’s house.  Her father was a drunk.  He didn’t deserve her.  She had been dead for almost two days before he had bothered to report her as missing.  Sparrow had rescued her.  Here, with him, she would be forever safe and adored.  She would stay young and precious, and not have to bear any of the wounds of growing up and being disappointed—or worse, harmed—by the adults that were supposed to protect her.    

There had been whispers about who was responsible for her disappearance, but most folks agreed that she had wandered off, gotten lost, and somehow perished—most likely in a hit-and-run that had jettisoned her body into the woods.  It happened all the time.

In those sparsely populated mountain towns, the houses are engulfed by trees and acres of grass between them, and the roads cough up enough dirt to veil every dark deed, hidden from the prying eyes of outsiders.  It is a place where secrets and vices thrive.  Where residents swallow down their suspicions of and clamp their lips shut.  The unspoken penalty for snitching in that part of the world is death.    

He smiled thoughtfully at the girl.  “I met a beautiful little girl today,” he said, still stroking her cheek just softly enough to prevent the skin from peeling off.  “You would really love her.  Her hair is the same color as yours.  You’d be great friends.” 

He gently closed the pink door behind him and locked it.  They have so much in common, he thought to himself as he climbed the basement stairs and headed for the rest of his evening routine: microwave dinner, one can of beer, one homemade brownie, and no more than one hour of television.  Anything else would be gluttonous.  Poppy’s mother doesn’t deserve her, either.