The parrothawk’s wing was folded against my chest, though he would die, and his chirrup song beneath my chin was everything love was supposed to be. Something had crushed his wings, tail — my mother had stuffed him in a bag, and when I ripped it open to save him, his blood left a stain. Gently, I tried to straighten his broken length and laid him across my heart to warm him. With one hand I held him safe for a short time, and he tucked his head into my neck and made small whirring sounds. Warm, he curled against me and sang, and, for those moments, did not die.