Games at the border

He could tell his words hurt, which had never been his attention. He wanted to say he understood, but the truth was, he could barely comprehend the edges of what she had told him. He wanted to fix it, to help his friend. He just didn’t see how. How could you make something like that better? He wouldn’t mention it again, or at least he would try not to. But he would remember, and once he was a year old, he would gently remind her of his vow to take her back there. Perhaps, with a little more time, she might be in a position to appreciate the chance to face her past.

Sticking with objective not to mention it again, it was easy to do as she said. Staying quiet, he followed her back to the garden, dragging his wing all the way. His face screwed up as he climbed over the fence, but he said nothing, and didn’t utter his pain outloud. He had made enough of a mess of this.

Once in the garden, she would ask his injuries, and listed them as clinically as he was able. “I think I sprained my wing, cut on my face, some bruises from the rolling, and a bite on my back.” He detailed.