"His name is Carlos," Sylvia told George. They were eating dinner. "Do you realize that those tiny little birds fly all the way up from Mexico?"

"So do the old people. Or at least up from Florida and out from Arizona and back."

"Who does?"

"All our friends, when they retire." George mopped gravy up with a half slice of rye bread. "I figured that's what we'd be doing too only you don't want to."

"Well, maybe I do."

"Oh yeah? Well we can't afford it now anyway. Shit. I can't retire for seven more years now." He shook his head in disgust. "Probably not even then."