In the city, where the sky glows orange from too many streetlamps and pigeons nest not in trees but satellite dishes, there was an intelligence bureau so secret, even most pigeons didn’t know it existed.

It was called The Pigeon Bureau, and its headquarters was a rusted weather vane atop the old East Side cinema.

Clarence had a forehead wrinkle. This was not because he was old, he was merely “distinguished,” as he often reminded the others, but because he was burdened. With what, you might ask?

With culture.

Also with the responsibility of leading an elite society of alpacas who had, over the years, evolved from idle grass-chewers into literary sophisticates. Secret literary sophisticates.