He raps against Carson's glass tank with his tiny spectacles. A kind of scientific curiosity exerts itself. There's Audubon and his goddam birds, shot and stuffed and strung along wires. Imitating birds in flight, slow enough to illustrate. The cave is dark.
All bats hold still.
Virginia Woolf wrote a short story that started with a mark on the wall. She stared at it and it meant something. Her story ended abruptly. The stain flattened itself on the wall under that man's gaze. Sometimes your tone of voice is rather sharp, Anne.