In Chap­ter Three of “If These Wings Could Fly,” the pro­tag­o­nist Leighton reflects on the end of sum­mer, a time that brings free­dom for many, but not for her. As she returns to Auburn High, she finds solace in the pre­dictable rou­tine of school, relieved that her friends Camp­bell and Juniper are safe in their class­es. Step­ping off the bus, she is in tune with the thought that her peers are relieved the sum­mer break is over.

Leighton recon­nects with her friend Sofia in the hall­way, who greets her with excite­ment, high­light­ing the lack of com­mu­ni­ca­tion over the past week. Despite Leighton’s dif­fi­cul­ties at home that she refers to as a “domes­tic night­mare,” Sofi­a’s infec­tious pos­i­tiv­i­ty shines through. Their friend­ly ban­ter con­tin­ues as they nav­i­gate through the bustling hall, filled with fresh-faced fresh­men. Sofia shares that she has Phys­i­cal Edu­ca­tion as her first class, which prompts light-heart­ed teas­ing from Leighton about the chal­lenges of show­er­ing again after­ward and deal­ing with wet hair all day.

Leighton checks her own sched­ule and finds she has AP Eng­lish, which leads Sofia to joke about the mor­bid sub­ject mat­ter they will be explor­ing. Though dis­ap­point­ed that their sched­ules won’t over­lap this semes­ter, they find excite­ment in plan­ning arti­cles for the school news­pa­per, wish­ing to cov­er sports.

As they pass a large win­dow over­look­ing the soc­cer field, they notice an unusu­al sight: a mas­sive gath­er­ing of crows. The field is almost entire­ly filled with these birds, cre­at­ing a vibrant yet eerie scene. Both girls are unset­tled by the sheer num­ber of crows, which Leighton notes is a strik­ing and odd fea­ture for Auburn. They pause to take in the scene, wit­ness­ing the crows fly­ing in chaot­ic pat­terns over the field, leav­ing Leighton to won­der what could draw such a mul­ti­tude to their school, espe­cial­ly crea­tures capa­ble of flight who would pre­sum­ably choose to be any­where but there.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER

  THREE  

THE GIRL was heart-wrench­ing­ly, impos­si­bly beau­ti­ful. Desire weak­ened his stom­ach. A water­fall of blond hair splashed on her bare shoul­ders. He stud­ied the pho­to­graph sur­rep­ti­tious­ly and then closed the mag­a­zine and put it back where it belonged, on the top shelf. He glanced around to see if he’d been observed. The store own­er pos­i­tive­ly pro­hib­it­ed the read­ing of mag­a­zines and a sign said NO BUY NO READ. But the own­er was busy at the far end of the place.

Why did he always feel so guilty when­ev­er he looked at Play­boy and the oth­er mag­a­zines? A lot of guys bought them, passed them around at school, hid them in the cov­ers of note­books, even resold them. He some­times saw copies scat­tered casu­al­ly on cof­fee tables in the homes of his friends. He had once bought a girlie mag­a­zine, pay­ing for it with trem­bling fingers—a dol­lar and a quar­ter, his finances shot down in flames until his next allowance. And he didn’t know what to do with the damn thing once it was in his pos­ses­sion. Sneak­ing it home on the bus, hid­ing it in the bot­tom draw­er of his room, he was ter­ri­fied of dis­cov­ery. Final­ly, tired of smug­gling it into the bath­room for swift perusals, and weary of his deceit, and haunt­ed by the fear that his moth­er would find the mag­a­zine, Jer­ry had sneaked it out of the house and dropped it into a catch­basin. He lis­tened to it splash dis­mal­ly below, bid­ding a wist­ful farewell to the squan­dered buck and a quar­ter. A long­ing filled him. Would a girl ever love him? The one dev­as­tat­ing sor­row he car­ried with­in him was the fear that he would die before hold­ing a girl’s breast in his hand.

Out at the bus stop, Jer­ry leaned against a tele­phone pole, body weary, echo­ing the assault of the foot­ball prac­tices. For three days his body had absorbed pun­ish­ment. But he was still on the ros­ter, luck­i­ly. Idly, he watched the peo­ple on the Com­mon across the street. He saw them every day. They were now part of the scenery like the Civ­il War Can­non and the World War Mon­u­ments, the flag­pole. Hip­pies. Flower Chil­dren. Street Peo­ple. Drifters. Drop-Outs. Every­body had a dif­fer­ent name for them. They came out in the spring and stayed until Octo­ber, hang­ing around, call­ing taunts to passers­by occa­sion­al­ly but most of the time qui­et, lan­guid and peace­ful. He was fas­ci­nat­ed by them and some­times envied their old clothes, their slop­pi­ness, the way they didn’t seem to give a damn about any­thing. Trin­i­ty was one of the last schools to retain a dress code—shirt and tie. He watched a cloud of smoke swirl around a girl in a flop­py hat. Grass? He didn’t know. A lot of things he didn’t know.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he didn’t notice that one of the street peo­ple had detached him­self from the oth­ers and was cross­ing the street, dodg­ing cars deft­ly.

“Hey, man.”

Star­tled, Jer­ry real­ized the guy was address­ing him. “Me?”

The fel­low stood in the street, on the oth­er side of a green Volk­swa­gen, his chest rest­ing on the car’s roof. “Yes, you.” He was about nine­teen, long black hair brush­ing his shoul­ders, a curl­ing mus­tache, like a limp black snake draped on his upper lip, the ends dan­gling near his chin. “You been star­ing at us, man, like every day. Stand­ing here and star­ing.”

They real­ly say man, Jer­ry thought. He didn’t think any­body said man any more except as a joke. But this guy wasn’t jok­ing.

“Hey, man, you think we’re in a zoo? That why you stare?”

“No. Look, I don’t stare.” But he did stare, every day.

“Yes, you do, man. You stand here and look at us. With your home­work books and your nice shirt and your blue-and-white tie.”

Jer­ry looked around uneasi­ly. He con­front­ed only strangers, nobody from school.

“We’re not sub-humans, man.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“But you look it.”

“Look,” Jer­ry said, “I’ve got to get my bus.” Which was ridicu­lous, of course, because the bus wasn’t in sight.

“You know who’s sub-human, man? You. You are. Going to school every day. And back home on the bus. And do your home­work.” The guy’s voice was con­temp­tu­ous. “Square boy. Mid­dle-aged at four­teen, fif­teen. Already caught in a rou­tine. Wow.”

A hiss and the stench of exhaust announced the arrival of the bus. Jer­ry swung away from the guy.

“Go get your bus, square boy,” he called. “Don’t miss the bus, boy. You’re miss­ing a lot of things in the world, bet­ter not miss that bus.”

Jer­ry walked to the bus like a sleep­walk­er. He hat­ed con­fronta­tions. His heart ham­mered. He climbed aboard, dropped his token in the coin box and lurched to his seat as the bus moved away from the curb.

He sat down, breathed deeply, closed his eyes.

Go get your bus, square boy.

He opened his eyes and slit­ted them against the inva­sion of the sun through the win­dow.

You’re miss­ing a lot of things in the world, bet­ter not miss that bus.

A big put-on, of course. That was their spe­cial­ty, peo­ple like that. Putting peo­ple on. Noth­ing else to do with their lives, pid­dling away their lives.

And yet …

Yet, what?

He didn’t know. He thought of his life—going to school and com­ing home. Even though his tie was loose, dan­gling on his shirt, he yanked it off. He looked up at the adver­tis­ing plac­ards above the win­dows, want­i­ng to turn his thoughts away from the con­fronta­tion.

Why? some­one had scrawled in a blank space no adver­tis­er had rent­ed.

Why not? some­one else had slashed in answer.

Jer­ry closed his eyes, exhaust­ed sud­den­ly, and it seemed like too much of an effort even to think.

In Chap­ter Three of “Lord of the Flies,” titled “Huts on the Beach,” Jack is deeply immersed in the wilder­ness, intent on hunt­ing pigs. He nav­i­gates the dense under­growth with a sharp­ened stick, seek­ing signs of his prey. With a keen sense of obser­va­tion, Jack exam­ines his sur­round­ings, not­ing clues such as a loop of creep­er and drop­pings, indi­cat­ing ani­mal pres­ence. His phys­i­cal trans­for­ma­tion since arriv­ing on the island is evi­dent; he is now more pri­mal in appear­ance, embody­ing his hunter instincts. The chap­ter cap­tures his obses­sion with track­ing and killing a pig, show­ing his increas­ing descent into sav­agery.

Mean­while, Ralph and Simon strug­gle with the con­struc­tion of shel­ters. Ralph express­es frus­tra­tion at the group’s lack of com­mit­ment to build­ing huts while Jack’s hunters pri­or­i­tize hunt­ing. Despite Ralph’s lead­er­ship role, he feels the weight of respon­si­bil­i­ty alone, as most boys, includ­ing the lit­tluns, aban­don their tasks. When Jack returns to the beach, he is thirsty and needs water. He cross­es paths with Ralph, who is work­ing hard on the shel­ters, which are falling apart. Their con­trast­ing priorities—Jack’s obses­sion with hunt­ing and Ralph’s focus on sur­vival needs, like shelters—highlight the grow­ing divide between the boys.

Simon, qui­eter and more intro­spec­tive, helps gath­er fruit for the lit­tluns, show­cas­ing his gen­tler nature. He ven­tures into the for­est alone, seek­ing solace in nature. In a seclud­ed spot, Simon finds a tran­quil space, a small cab­in sur­round­ed by creep­ers, which sym­bol­izes his con­nec­tion to the island and his retreat from the group’s chaos. As evening falls, the seren­i­ty of the jun­gle con­trasts sharply with the ris­ing ten­sions among the boys, par­tic­u­lar­ly between Ralph and Jack.

When Jack express­es a desire to hunt more seri­ous­ly, he implies his readi­ness to aban­don Ralph’s vision of civ­i­liza­tion. This chap­ter marks a piv­otal moment in the nar­ra­tive, illus­trat­ing the strug­gle between sav­agery and civ­i­liza­tion as the boys’ pri­or­i­ties shift. The motifs of fear, hunt­ing, and the loss of inno­cence per­me­ate their dynam­ics, fore­shad­ow­ing con­flict as they try to nav­i­gate their exis­tence on the island.

In Chap­ter Three of “The Bread­win­ner,” Par­vana’s fam­i­ly strug­gles with the absence of her father, who has been arrest­ed by the Tal­iban. After a tumul­tuous night where Par­vana is unable to sleep, she finds her­self lost in thoughts of safe­ty, the dark prison her father may be in, and the fear that thick­ens the air around their home. As day breaks, Moth­er, Noo­ria, and Par­vana pre­pare to under­take a dan­ger­ous jour­ney to the prison, moti­vat­ed by the hope of res­cu­ing Father. Unlike the sim­plic­i­ty of going to the mar­ket, Moth­er’s deter­mi­na­tion to retrieve her hus­band reveals the grav­i­ty of their sit­u­a­tion.

As they assem­ble a makeshift break­fast, Moth­er dis­miss­es tea to save time in their pur­suit. Noo­ria writes a note giv­ing Moth­er per­mis­sion to be out­side, know­ing the risks involved. Once ready, Par­vana feels appre­hen­sion about the long walk ahead; women can­not ride bus­es with­out male accom­pa­ni­ment. Nonethe­less, both Par­vana and her moth­er remain res­olute. Par­vana’s mind drifts as they walk, imag­in­ing the intim­i­dat­ing and cold envi­ron­ment of the jail her father must be endur­ing.

On reach­ing Pul-i-Charkhi Prison, Par­vana’s anx­i­ety peaks. The atmos­phere is stark and per­ilous as they con­front the guards. Despite the poten­tial for severe reper­cus­sions, Moth­er per­sists, demand­ing her hus­band’s release by hold­ing up his pho­to­graph. Par­vana joins her moth­er, assert­ing their mis­sion. Their pleas quick­ly attract atten­tion from passers­by but soon lead to aggres­sion from the guards. A sol­dier tears Father’s pho­to­graph apart, and vio­lence ensues as Moth­er is beat­en with sticks.

Par­vana, although small, brave­ly inter­venes to pro­tect her moth­er, try­ing to assert her­self in a moment where pow­er­less­ness reigns. As the sit­u­a­tion esca­lates, they ulti­mate­ly leave the prison, bat­tered but still filled with the hope that they can find their way back to peace and secu­ri­ty. The chap­ter vivid­ly illus­trates the pain of sep­a­ra­tion, the strength of famil­ial love, and the harsh real­i­ties faced by women under oppres­sive regimes. Parvana’s brav­ery shines through her fear, show­cas­ing the pro­found impacts of war on both indi­vid­u­als and fam­i­lies.

In Chap­ter Three, the nar­ra­tor reflects on her upbring­ing in a house­hold over­whelmed by paper­work and doc­u­men­ta­tion. This clut­ter filled her life with a sense of iden­ti­ty shaped by the tan­gi­ble evi­dence of her fam­i­ly’s his­to­ry, encap­su­lat­ed in invoic­es, old sub­scrip­tions, and her mother’s Cam­bo­di­an pass­port. Grow­ing up in this envi­ron­ment instilled in her an obses­sion with archiv­ing and orga­ni­za­tion, influ­enc­ing her career as a civ­il ser­vant.

Through­out the chap­ter, the focus shifts to the nar­ra­tor’s rela­tion­ship with Gra­ham, an expat adjust­ing to mod­ern life. Despite embrac­ing cer­tain aspects of the 21st century—like music from com­posers such as Bach and Tchaikovsky—Graham dis­plays a reluc­tance toward assim­i­la­tion, often cri­tiquing con­tem­po­rary cul­ture and art. His dis­missal of films frus­trates the nar­ra­tor, mak­ing her reflec­tion on their cul­tur­al dif­fer­ences more pro­nounced.

As the nar­ra­tive unfolds, the expats under­go tests for empa­thy and hon­esty, rem­i­nis­cent of psy­cho­log­i­cal eval­u­a­tions. The exper­i­ments reveal ten­sions; some test sub­jects resist the notion of moder­ni­ty, reveal­ing their psy­cho­log­i­cal strug­gles. Gra­ham’s adverse reac­tions to the test­ing pro­ce­dures hint at deep­er issues, draw­ing atten­tion to the emo­tion­al toll of their cur­rent exis­tence.

The chap­ter tran­si­tions into the shared expe­ri­ences of the expats as they nav­i­gate life togeth­er, which accen­tu­ates their iso­la­tion from each oth­er due to their dis­tinct his­tor­i­cal back­grounds. Com­mu­nal din­ners become a poten­tial solu­tion for build­ing con­nec­tions, high­light­ing the appalling dis­par­i­ties among dif­fer­ent eras of expats regard­ing social inter­ac­tion and iden­ti­ty.

The nar­ra­tor reflects on her own iden­ti­ty and finan­cial pru­dence stem­ming from her past, cou­pled with her desire for acknowl­edg­ment from Gra­ham. As the heat wave begins, it intro­duces dis­com­fort and exac­er­bates ten­sions in the rela­tion­ships, lead­ing the nar­ra­tor to buy a new bike for Gra­ham, hop­ing to forge a con­nec­tion through shared expe­ri­ences.

Graham’s ini­tial inep­ti­tude on the bike demon­strates his strug­gle with mod­ern life, while his fas­ci­na­tion with the past emerges through his con­ver­sa­tions. Their shared attempts at adjust­ment expose both lim­i­ta­tions, blend­ing the his­tor­i­cal with the con­tem­po­rary while explor­ing themes of adap­ta­tion and empa­thy through their evolv­ing inter­ac­tions. The chap­ter clos­es with an unset­tling mys­tery regard­ing one of the expats, hint­ing at deep­er, poten­tial­ly sin­is­ter issues with­in the time-trav­el project, rein­forc­ing the nar­ra­tive ten­sion that under­scores their jour­ney.