My neighbors show me the spot on their house where a squirrel ate through the wood to reach her nest of dying babies after the remodeler nailed in the last row of cedar shingles. All night the desperate scratches kept the household awake until the husband in his robe, bare feet on damp grass, walked into the night garden and aimed the BB gun where the roof meets the eave. I can see the claw marks, the ragged edges as I hold my son, his bottom slung inside my elbow, warm body the smallest heater, weight a solid thing, heart quicker than a den of squirrels, their sightless forms curled around each other, down of silver fur. I want to believe that under a still moon in a chilly April night, the mother took each pup by the nape, carried them to a new nest made of insulation, cardboard, and leaves. I want to say you know I'm on the squirrel's side here, right? but choke on sawdust and paint, splinters in throat, broken mouth, frenzied hands.