Every question your Bird could not answer, gathered. Counts for the things it has a name for; the customer's own words only where they asked you to hear them.
Six numbers from the calls themselves, each beside the count it is out of. What the calls cannot yet measure says why, in that number's place.
Every miss of the last six days, one splat each: six bands by kind of miss, oldest on the left, coloured by shop. Splats are kept far enough apart to be counted back off the paint; when a band is too busy for that it thins to its most recent misses and the line under the wall says how many went.
Your Bird had a name for these. It knew what was being asked and could tell you which one.
Your Bird did not have a name for these, so it made one up and set it aside. Nothing here counts as a finding until you say it is real — tick what you recognise and it becomes part of the wall.
When the Bird could not help, it offered to pass a note on. These are only the ones where the person said yes — their words, sent deliberately, not overheard.