THREE EGGS IN THE LID

The Cantochoro from the hillside flew in and out through the gap above the service cabinet, carrying in its beak dry fibres of grass, filaments of mineral packaging and the down torn from the two leafless shrubs in front of the bar. With each trip it left more matter on the intake grille. The machine's air began to come back through the gap in short gusts, smelling of heated dust. Renan noticed before anyone else. He laid his palm against the plate and pulled his hand away fast. The toolbox stayed shut under the counter, obeying the suspension on his profile. Even so, he crouched in front of the cabinet and followed the sound of the fan. There's a nest in the intake, he said. The bird came back with a thin root, struck the plate and vanished behind the duct. Antônio came out of the kitchen with the lid turned upside down, still stained by the burnt cassava. Nael stayed near the door, looking up. The old strip of woodland behind the guesthouse had been cleared for the service road, then eaten by the dust from the pit. Few places of shelter remained among the hot roof tiles, the cables and the cameras. Ilva went up to the cabinet. Responsibility for the thermal deviation still ran in her name. She had lost the measurement, but the heat of that plate called to her body like an old incident. If you pull from below, you'll crush it, said Renan. Antônio brought a low ladder from the storeroom. The wood creaked at every rung. Nael held the base while Ilva climbed, slowly, one hand on the wall and the other on the duct. The Cantochoro came out again, this time without fibre, and settled on the wiring fixed to the façade. It stayed watching the four of them like someone waiting for the return of something no one had promised. Inside there were three small eggs, grey with red dust. Renan took the upturned lid and asked Antônio to hold it below the gap. Then he tore a strip from his own shirt, measured the width of the grille with his eyes and showed where Ilva should rest her fingers. She loosened the grass first. Then the filaments. The down came away whole, held by a dried saliva that resisted the first attempt. The fan changed its note. Nael raised his face. He had known that change since the days when he led machines onto the land and was paid by the road opened. Nael lowered his face, his lips moved without sound. He held out his arms when the nest gave way. The eggs fell into the lid without breaking. The Cantochoro came down in a low circle, too close to Antônio's head. He flinched, laughed once and stopped when he saw the bird land on the eave. Ilva handed the lid to Nael. Renan pointed to the side of the porch, where an old ventilation box was still fixed to the wood, useless since the guesthouse had lost its classification. That gets shade until noon, he said. They carried the eggs there. Nael fitted the fibres in place, Antônio added straw pulled from an old mat, and Ilva cleared away from the nest the plastic threads the bird had brought from the loading area. When they finished, the Cantochoro landed on the edge of the box, went in and disappeared. The fan resumed its steady turning. The plate would cool only for the machine. Outside, the heat stayed on their shoulders, coming from the ore road, from the cabinets, from the datacenter promised to drink from the same basin. Renan wiped his hands on his trousers and looked at the locked box under the counter. Then he turned his face towards the kitchen.