Collin made himself a snack in the kitchen, a ham sandwich with kettle chips and caramel corn. Collin’s name had not always been Collin, but his father had told him to forget his previous name, that all children shed theirs early on. 
     The blue sky rose through the half-moon window like an arc of water. His father promised one day they would go fishing. They would buy minnows and nightcrawlers at a bait shop along a highway. He would show Collin how to attach a line and tie the hook. If they were lucky, they would catch something and fry it in butter for dinner.
     The sweetness of the caramel corn cut through the saltiness of the chips. Opposites attract, his father had said. Just like his mother. She was somewhere in a bright green house with a garden that had peonies larger than Collin’s head. Collin did not know this for certain, but he pictured it often. 
     He liked snack time, and he liked watching the shooting stars that occasionally crossed the sky like sparrows. He wanted to tell other children about his favorite birds, but his father taught school for him at home. His father told him lots of stories, and sometimes Collin couldn’t keep track of them or figure out who the characters were.
     Collin finished his snack and put his plate in the sink. He thought of how the fish would break the surface of the water, like a secret, like something shedding.