Nowadays you want something more darkly hot-blooded than a butterfly pavilion but again you're disappointed - bats flap fingers, not arms, and won't cause a distant storm. Simple rain confuses their echoes. You fear the chalk screech of their blackboard world, their surprise fur and parched membranes, the gust as they pass your cheek, the way bats feel moths pass. Moths screech back to confuse. All you can do is leave through the air-locked door, rejoin your parents who look so happy now, picnicking in the sun where you left them arguing. They kiss. You could sneak up and surprise them.