If Hitchcock had used robins or sparrows or budgies, he says, the movie would have been a damn sight more ominous.
Watch out, Hitchcock, she says, inside.
Or parrots, screeching Who's your Mommy?
She nods, thinks about food.
You going to shower? he says.
The wind pounds the cabin.
The clock on the wall is set for another time zone. Or the battery is dying. She remembers another hike, the one with her ex-ex; she remembers the cheese fondue, how they fondued burger and sliced white bread and shared a pint bottle of Heineken; she remembers not wanting to leave.
We should sleep, she says. It's getting late.