Sunday, 23 April 2006 | Team squirrel

On Friday evening, a baby squirrel dropped out of the sky. It happened just before we rounded the corner, thankfully, so we didn't see (or, more importantly, hear) it hit the sidewalk. A stranger told us it sounded like a beanbag smacking the pavement.

At first it wasn't clear if the squirrel was alive or dead. Its black eyes were moist and seemed to have life, but its body was motionless, and it was nonchalantly lying on its side in the middle of a busy sidewalk.

A group of us hovered nearby, waiting for something to happen. None of us knew each other, but we instantly developed a tacit camaraderie, like that of fans pulling for the same team. When it twitched and sat upright, we let words of relief escape. When a passerby nearly stepped squarely on it, we spurt out panicked words of warning. We dumbly speculated about its injuries and its mental health, none of us sure what to do, not wanting to leave until we knew it was going to be fine or going to die.

After a good five minutes of fickle behavior, the squirrel finally granted our wish and scurried off down the sidewalk. "Now it's going to get hit by a car," one girl cynically joked. "But it won't matter because we won't know about it." We all walked away satisfied.