I barely recognized I’d had those thoughts, but they echoed back clearly.

“I won’t use the parrot,” I said aloud. “I’m just taking it to camp as proof.”

The backup singers in my brain said, I’m lying to myself, I’ll probably eavesdrop, I don’t know what I’ll do.

I stuffed the parrot into the pocket of my dungarees and hastily pulled out my hand. The voices cut off instantly and the silence of the night flooded in. I breathed a sigh of relief and began walking back to the camp, trying to fill my heart with good intentions.

I touched the parrot several times as I walked, just to see that it was still working. The parrot didn’t react. It seemed to be asleep, but it still broadcast my thoughts loud and clear. Some creatures give off body temperatures; others give off mental echoes.

What did I hear from the parrot? Excitement mostly, the feeling of power. Qualms too — using the parrot to spy on others was wrong, but could I resist? And a memory of facing a similar conflict when I discovered masturbation at the age of thirteen: an exciting power, an irresistible compulsion, yet an act I’d been told was dirty. Secret vice. Is that a parrot in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? “How far do I have to dig this damned hole?”

I jerked my head around. That last thought wasn’t mine.

There was no one in sight... but I stood on barren ground between two flat-topped hills. Someone could be on one of the hills, within range of the parrot’s hearing, whatever that range was. I took a few steps toward the hill on my left, then stopped and touched the parrot: nothing but my own thoughts, racing, trying to figure out whose voice it had been. Male. Alex? Roland? I hadn’t paid enough attention.