Azazil settled in Roches Noires and wore a white suit with white shoes. The cages too, he painted white. To the boys that caught the birds he didn’t pay much, but enough to keep them out of school. He sold doves, pigeons, canaries, lovebirds. But there was one bird he’d never sell. It was not a rare bird, yet he watched it like a hawk. Fed it the best seed, changed its water often, kept it in the shade. Nevertheless, each night the dream reoccurred: the small bird pecking out his eyes, blood all down his white suit.