The Song with a Space in It

Pella’s call always disappeared. When the Parasaurolophus families gathered beside the lake, the larger dinosaurs filled the air with deep, ringing sounds. Pella tried to join them, but her small note vanished somewhere between Aunt Umber and Cousin Reed. She could feel it in her chest. She could hear it inside her head. Everyone else seemed to hear only the impressive calls around her. Pella began pretending she had not meant to make a sound at all.

The group was preparing to move along the wooded shore. In their imagined community, each family practiced a simple call-and-answer so they could keep track of one another behind the trees. Reed enjoyed the practice enormously. He answered before anyone finished asking. Umber added long flourishes. The younger dinosaurs copied both of them. What should have been a clear exchange became a rolling jumble of noise. Pella stood at the edge and listened.

“Again,” said Old Cedar, who was guiding the move. Everyone called at once. Cedar sighed. Reed claimed that somebody else had started too early. Umber claimed nobody was listening properly. Pella noticed that both complaints were true, but she could not find a space to say so. She walked down to a quiet patch of shore, where little waves tapped a fallen branch. Tap, hush, tap, hush. The hush seemed as much a part of the pattern as the tapping.

Her friend Linden followed. “Are you tired of practicing?” Pella nodded. Linden sat beside her, and together they listened to the water. Pella made a small call. Linden waited until it ended, then answered. For the first time that morning, Pella could hear her own sound reach someone. She tried again. This time she left a longer space. Linden grinned. “I know exactly when it’s my turn.” Pella looked back toward the noisy group.

She had an idea, but carrying it into the clearing felt difficult. Reed was demonstrating a new flourish, and everyone was watching. Linden walked beside her. When Cedar called for another attempt, Pella asked, “Could we try fewer sounds?” Reed looked offended. Pella’s courage wobbled. “Only for one round,” she added. “Could everyone wait until the asking sound has finished? Then one family answers, and the others leave a space.”

Cedar agreed. The first attempt failed because Reed forgot and answered twice. The second failed because Umber’s flourish covered Linden’s response. Pella wanted to retreat to the shore. Instead she described the waves tapping the branch. Cedar asked them to imagine a wave coming in, then going out. Umber shortened her call. Reed folded his restlessness into a little sway of his feet. This time the question ended before the answer began.

Pella’s family answered last. She heard her own small note clearly inside the group’s response. Nobody had made her louder. They had made room. Cedar smiled and led a practice walk through the first stretch of trees. One family called from a bend; the others listened and replied in turn. The calls still sounded lively, but now they carried information. When a young dinosaur stopped to inspect a leaf, its family noticed the missing answer and waited.

At the next clearing Reed approached Pella. “Would you listen to my flourish after we finish?” he asked. She agreed. His extra notes were funny and interesting when they were not covering someone else’s turn. Pella laughed so hard that she startled a dragonfly. Reed looked delighted. He had not wanted to make others disappear; he had wanted them to enjoy his voice. Listening carefully to Pella had taught him how those two things could come apart.

That evening the group reached a sheltered bay. Their final call-and-answer travelled clearly across the open water. Then everyone grew quiet to browse and rest. Pella sat with Linden beside a fallen branch. Tap, hush, tap, hush. She no longer thought of the hush as something empty. It held a place for a reply, a question, a small voice becoming brave. “Tomorrow,” she said, “we could teach the hatchlings.” Linden waited until she had finished. “Tomorrow,” he answered.