THE LIFE-CYCLE OF A NUTHATCH

"Excuse me." A lovely baritone floated across the table at her, cutting through the diner's early morning quiet, and Francine gave herself a little shake. She sat up straight, fork in hand, surprised to find a sandy-haired man waiting patiently for her attention. His hand hovered over the folded newspaper on the table. "Are you finished with this?"

"You want the newspaper?"

"Well, um, just the world news section, actually." The man's face had flushed, likely with embarrassment, and he drew his hand away as if the paper were on fire.

Francine waved a hand. "Fine, go ahead."

"You're not reading?"

"It's not my paper, actually. It was here when I got here. And no, I'm not reading."

She knew she sounded rude. Amanda would say so. She'd give Francine a little nudge with her elbow and hiss it under her breath, drawing out her name in a way that communicated all too clearly how horrified she was by Francine's behavior. But Amanda wasn't there. Amanda was at home with Lee, probably asleep judging by the hour.

Maybe not asleep, she thought, as she looked out the window with gritty eyes. The sun had come up, kissing the sides of the buildings across the street with its rosy morning light. It was officially Monday now, and her friends and fellow agents would be getting up and getting ready for work.

She felt wrung-out and exhausted, as if everything were happening in slow motion. She looked down at her hands on the table in front of her. Her manicure, which had been so perfect the day before, was irrevocably chipped. She knew her hair was still stiff with spray, though she'd managed to wrangle it into a ponytail that she was sure probably looked like a horse's mane. Her sweatshirt, which bore the IFF emblem, was usually reserved for workout sessions with Sidney Chow, Dr Pain himself. She'd dug it out of her locker at the Agency, where it had sat rolled into a ball for over a month. She wondered suddenly if she still smelled. She'd taken a quick shower in the locker room before her debrief (at Billy's urging, which was really almost a plea) but the sharp, sour odor of rotting garbage had lingered in her nose.

She wasn't sure what she was doing at The Pie Plate, eating chocolate pie of all things at seven in the morning. Her car had almost driven itself here, when she'd intended to go straight home, soak under the spray of a hot shower, and sleep until late afternoon. She supposed she was hoping Brenda was on shift, ready to commiserate — and she had been. She'd brought Francine the slice of pie, unprompted, and a hot cup of coffee, let her sketch out the high notes of the night before, and then disappeared into the back because she was covering for Ralph, who was on vacation in Bora Bora.

The man was still standing there, looking through the paper for the section he wanted.

"You can take the whole thing," Francine said, "I'm really not going to read it."

"It doesn't have the bit I want anyway," he muttered, and she realized he had an accent. English, and if she listened enough she might be able to pin down the exact district. He glowered at the paper in disgust, his brows drawing together. "It's still warm from the presses and world news is already gone."

"There's more than one copy in this place," Francine said, sipping her coffee and smirking a bit as she did.

He set the paper down and sighed. "Yes, I'm sure there is."

She felt compelled to try to make amends in some way, and set down her cup to look at him, leaning her chin in her hand and softening her voice. "I'm usually pretty on-top of world events. What are you following?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. Sometimes I just like to have a read about home, you know? See what old Maggie Thatcher's up to. "

"She's in Poland," Francine said, without thinking, and the man looked impressed. "She gave a speech the other day."

He continued to watch her with interest, as if waiting for her to elaborate.

"I work for the federal government," she said, finally. "I pay attention to those things."

"I see." He nodded. "What do you do?"

"Oh, uh…" She hadn't had to use her IFF cover in so long she'd almost forgotten what to tell people. "Film. Documentaries, mostly. You know, the life-cycle of a nuthatch or the history of the tractor. That sort of thing."

He chuckled. "I see. Is Maggie Thatcher's trip to Poland relevant to nuthatches?"

Francine shrugged. "Everything is connected, I guess." She poked at the slice of chocolate pie on her plate. The events of the past twelve hours were suddenly catching up with her, an entire night of chasing and being chased, watching and being watched. She wondered if maybe Lee and Amanda had the right idea, and backing off from the field was the way to go.

The sandy-haired man was frowning at her. "I suppose so," he said. He sighed. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Perhaps that gentleman by the windows will let me read up on the Polish speech."

She nodded, watching as he strode across the room towards a round, bearded man who had settled quite comfortably in what Francine thought of as Lee's booth. She watched as the two men began to talk, and the sandy-haired man gestured to the paper. The round man shook his head, puzzled, and began rifling through the paper. After a moment he handed over a section, and Francine watched them mime the actions of thank-you-you're-welcome.

The sandy-haired man turned back toward his table, catching Francine's eye as he did. He grinned and made a 'thumbs up' motion. She caught herself making the motion back at him, then laughing. How ridiculous. How unlike her.

Better eat your pie, Frannie, and get to bed, she thought.

"It was about freedom," the baritone said, a few minutes later, and Francine turned her head in surprise.

She'd almost drifted off, staring out the window at a bird — she could almost convince herself it was a white-breasted nuthatch — clinging to the trunk of a tree near the window. She'd been thinking about the night before again, about slipping a microdot into her pocket and then instantly knowing she'd been found out. Fleeing the venue through the back doors and scurrying past sour-smelling dumpsters in her blue silk pantsuit, thinking wryly how glad she was she'd taken a page out of Amanda's book and worn pants and low-heeled shoes. Climbing into a different, equally rank dumpster a block down to wait out her pursuers before picking her way across fourteen blocks of dank alleyways. Hunching in the back of a cab as she rode back to the Agency nearly two hours later, hoping Billy or someone would be there to come pay the driver because she'd lost her clutch and the fake ID she'd been carrying, along with two buttons and the heel of one of her shoes, and she knew her purse was tucked away in a locker ten floors below ground. Low heels be damned, maybe she should think seriously about Amanda's sneakers if she was going to do this more often.

Maybe she should rethink doing it at all.

"Sorry?" Her face prickled with heat. She didn't like being caught daydreaming.

The sandy-haired owner of the lovely baritone was watching her, waiting for a response of some sort.

"The Polish speech Thatcher gave. It was an appeal for freedom."

"Oh, right." Francine nodded.

"Though I didn't see any mention of our industrious little friends, the nuthatches," he went on, smoothing the coat draped over one arm. She saw now that he had a hospital ID clipped to the front pocket of the navy wool jacket. She hadn't anticipated that at all — in fact, she felt a stab of disappointment that she'd not played even one solitary round of the guessing game she and Lee liked so much.

"I'm sure she addressed it via subtext. Some kind of vague code, you know."

He chuckled. "I'm sure. Some reference to perseverance or cracking things wide open." He gestured at the remnants of her dessert. "Anyway, I'll leave you to it."

"Your patients await." Francine bit her lip as soon as she'd spoken. She really was off her game that morning, blurting out all her little observations without meaning to.

He paused, surprised. "My what?"

"It's just you have your — ah — identification on your coat. Right there." She pointed at his jacket, and he craned to look.

"Oh, so I do. Well. That's observant of you." He gestured at her sweatshirt. "Do you work for IFF?"

"Yes. Films, remember?"

He smirked. "Right. Films."

"What do you know about it?" She straightened in her seat, drawing herself up to full height in the chair the way she did at work. Amanda had teased her once about puffing herself up like a cat and she knew she was doing exactly that, but old habits died even harder when you were sleep-deprived.

"Well, I'm an orthopedic surgeon and I've treated some of your… filmmakers… over the years." He lifted an eyebrow, probably mirroring her own expression, though he didn't look at all put-out by having to give the explanation. He seemed like a relaxed person in general, actually. "I have the appropriate security clearance and I split my time between here and London."

"Oh. I see." She sat for a minute thinking about how his security clearance could easily be the same as hers. For what reason, she wondered. Broken bones didn't usually involve any top-secret intelligence, just top-secret intelligence gatherers. "Did you go to film school, or have you always been a doctor?"

"I started out in film school, yes. But I was never more than an assistant on-set. Then after five years or so I decided I'd take my biology degree and become a doctor."

So he was quite a bit older than she — she took a closer look at the lines around his eyes and realized he was probably in his early forties.

"So are you a —" He paused. It wasn't a hesitation, he was either wondering whether to call her a leopard or talk around her spots, she realized.

"I work in the field occasionally but mostly behind the scenes. This isn't my usual get-up and last night was a particularly dramatic shoot."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Was anyone hurt?"

"Aside from an extremely expensive silk pantsuit and a pair of designer heels, no." She hunched her shoulders. "I was lucky."

He nodded.

"Anyway, I'm going to stick to production meetings for the foreseeable future, I think." She gave him a brief, tight smile, and pushed away the plate containing the remnants of her pie.

"I'm David, by the way." He extended a hand, suddenly, leaning over the table.

"Francine," she said, clasping his fingers. "Nice to meet you."

"You too," he said, then squared his shoulders. "Take care of yourself." He grinned, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and Francine felt compelled to mirror his expression. "Keep an eye out for nuthatches." And then he turned and walked out of the diner, leaving Francine with an empty plate and a head full of questions.

"Nuthatches," she murmured to herself. She knew why she'd chosen that particular bird. Her grandmother had always liked them. They were friendly little birds, she said, undeterred by difficult tasks. Committed to cracking that nut. They represented the ability to find new perspective. She'd always thought Nana had just made up the symbolism, but apparently someone else had heard the same story.

David the Doctor had heard the same story.

Too bad she was probably never going to see him again. He seemed interesting, though not at all her type. C'est la vie, she supposed. That was par for the course. She reached for her purse — thank goodness she'd had the sense to leave it at the Agency the night before — and began rummaging through it for her wallet, trying not to think about the little knot of warmth that was radiating in her chest, ignited by that final smile he'd given before he'd turned away.