My daughter told the story with a mixture of mirth and distaste.

“So the nightingale has returned outside my bedroom window,” she began.

I pictured the window in her apartment where I had lived with her for a while after the fires. The area was eerily devoid of bird sounds, as though the head honcho of the clan had warned them away with an order to evacuate.

“How nice,” I responded, remembering how happy I was when I heard the first bird chirp in my yard a long time after I was able to move back into my house. But Sara’s voice had an edge.

She cleared her throat and explained that the nightingale is the guy who can’t get a date. That’s why he sings all night long. The nightingale’s song is his mating call. Since this is all he has to offer, it’s no wonder he’s doing so poorly with the

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