At the same time the children begin their school day they also end it. At this school, the children study the greatest finales of musical scores, the last lingering sentences of classic novels, and the most triumphant farewells from Jesus Christ onward. Throughout the year they learn thousands of languages, proclaiming translations of "goodbye" in each more than sufficient for fluency. Their math books only contain solutions. From the outside, I see them huddle together on the rug at midday, devouring their packed lunches of only dessert.

On sunny days they close the windows, which is why I find a gap to peek inside. They can’t bear to evidence the growing of grass, the pollination of flowers, or, most horribly: the chirps of baby birds. During this season, the children never leave the school. They hibernate, sleeping in lofted bed towers in the basement.

Opening the door, I offer a friendly "hello" and the teacher glares back. Her tired eyes spend only a second on me and then return to her book, announcing "happily ever after" to the children for the tenth time. When the children’s wild cheers dissolve, I try again, this time louder: “Hello!” They look at me and my foreign language confusedly. They look to their teacher for advice. The teacher ignores me. Finally I make a waving motion, and that seems to do the trick. The teacher erupts from her seat and storms after me, leading me by the hand out of the classroom. She gently closes the door and then locks it from the outside. From inside, the finale from Beethoven’s Fifth begins. It’s about time.

“You came for the records, right?” she assumes. She unlocks the treasure chest and hands me a bird cage filled with charts and graphs of the children’s growth measured during their sleep. “It’s about time,” she says under her breath, handing me the key, “I can’t bear to see them grow any longer.” I nod again, smiling, adding the cage to my aviary.