Burt is an “intergalactic trans-dimensional time traveller” from the Planet Mod. Or so he says. While the validity of his sci-fi claim is up for debate, he indisputably feels like an alien. An orphaned little bluebird with a moon-shaped head and pinprick eyes, Burt has been adopted by Lydia, a maternal mouse. Standing self-consciously in front of a wall lined with rodent family pictures, Burt comments, “This isn’t really my home.” Gazing with shy defiance at his reflection in a mirror, he states, “My name isn’t even Burt.”

Comic strip panels relay the waif’s creative schemes to cope with his sense of loss and find his way. Convinced he’ll get back home if he can rebuild his damaged “chronomorphic engine,” Burt cobbles together a makeshift gadget out of junk-box antennae and a pilfered remote control. Sitting by himself at the top of a tree, hoping for a signal from home, he is the embodiment of loneliness.

Burt’s quandary is also told from Lydia’s point of view. Her economical, single-sentence contemplations are straight from the heart: “I hope he’s happy here” and “I can’t even begin to imagine what’s he’s been through.” Her words of concern appear in faint, white text, like a whisper on the page. Lydia’s support is steadfast, even when Burt’s odd behaviour perplexes curious neighbours. Ever patient and respectful, Lydia watches from a distance, and frets, “I only wish he would wear a hat.”

Toronto cartoonist and illustrator John Martz is an Eisner and Governor General’s Literary Award nominee at the top of his game. With clean lines and understated simplicity, the wordless spreads speak as loudly as those with text. Telling, subtle details leave a lump in the throat and chart Burt’s emotional journey, from his ready-to-go suitcase tucked beneath his bed to the welcoming addition of his framed photograph, prominently on display in the family home. When Burt reaches for Lydia’s hand on a starry winter night, we know he has finally found what he has been looking for.