Over the next week, my days were spent being tossed out of doors. Front doors, side doors, balcony doors — if it had hinges, the males threw me through it. If it didn’t have hinges, they still found a way. I learned quickly that in this household, “door” meant “any opening large enough to launch a child through.”

  It went better each day, though “better” was a generous word. The running didn’t stop. The screaming didn’t stop. The feather?pulling didn’t stop. At least until I ran out of tail feathers to pluck from the males. After that, the chases ended much quicker. Apparently, my tactical advantage had been 90% feather?based.

  By the evening meal at the end of my fifth week, I sat in the Restaurant of Doom again. It was much livelier now. Every child attempted escape after every meal. My mother claimed I was the cause of this new trend.

  She leaned over and whispered, “You started a movement.”

  “I did not,” I muttered.

  “You absolutely did,” she said, sipping her drink.

  “I just didn’t want to die.”

  “That’s how movements begin.”

  I was too tired to argue.

  I ate my meal with a small sense of satisfaction, because the afternoon flight had been the first where I didn’t fall. I flew. Not by choice. Not by skill. Not by any noble instinct. But I flew. Even if the flight had been initiated by being tossed out of a doorway, it still counted.

  The males, however, had gotten much worse at flying during the week. My mother tried to defend them.

  “It’s the missing feathers,” she said.

  “No,” I replied. “They were bad before.”

  She hid her smile behind her wing.

  When the meal ended, the males stood up to come get me.

  My father cracked his knuckles. “Alright, little one. Evening lesson.”

  The sitter’s husband stretched his wings. “Try not to bite me this time.”

  “No promises,” I said.

  They reached for me.

  But I had figured out the restraints.

  I slipped out of them, slid off the chair, and bolted — not around the restaurant, not between tables, not through the padded obstacle course of doom.

  I ran straight out the front door.

  The males froze at the threshold.

  My father whispered, “Wait for it…”

  The sitter’s husband nodded. “Any second now…”

  They waited for the screams.

  The screams never came.

  My mother stood, walked to the doorway, and looked out. “She’s not falling.”

  The babysitter joined her. “She’s… not even here.”

  My father’s eyes widened. “Where’d she go?!”

  The sitter’s husband flapped his wings anxiously. “Check below! Check the water below! Check the cliff face!”

  “Check EVERYTHING!” my father shouted.

  They took off in a panic — all four adults — scattering into the sky like startled birds.

  But I didn’t look back.

  I had launched myself off the edge, glided forward, and flew home. Not well. Not gracefully. But I flew. And when I reached the house, I landed on the porch with only one bounce and went inside.

  I curled up in my nest. I groomed my feathers. I drank water. I rested.

  Hours passed.

  When the door finally opened, the adults stumbled in — wings drooping, feathers missing, eyes wide with panic.

  My father gasped, “She’s not here either—”

  Then he froze.

  I was sitting in the living room, perfectly calm, grooming a bent feather.

  The babysitter’s husband whispered, “No… no, that’s impossible…”

  My mother covered her beak with both hands. “You… you came home?”

  “I’ve been home all evening,” I said.

  Both males pooped on the floor.

  My mother burst into laughter. “Oh stars… you two…”

  The babysitter leaned against the wall, wiping tears from her eyes. “We searched half the island.”

  My father pointed at me, voice cracking. “We thought you were DEAD!”

  “I wasn’t,” I said, flicking a feather. “I was tired.”

  The sitter’s husband collapsed onto the couch. “She flew home… alone…”

  My mother beamed with pride. “She’s a natural.”

  “I screamed less this time,” I added.

  My father groaned. “She’s going to be unstoppable.”

  I shrugged. “Probably.”

  My mother looked at the sitters and announced, with far too much cheer, “You two are next. You deserve this much fun.”

  The sitters stared at each other as if trying to decide whether life was fair, whether fate was cruel, or whether they should simply flee the island before morning.

  I congratulated them. This did not help.

  The sitter’s husband groaned. “I don’t want fun.”

  The babysitter whispered, “I don’t think this is fun.”

  My father raised a wing. “Can you at least wait until I get my feathers back?”

  The other male nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes, please. I need… several days.”

  My mother smirked. “You’ll get several hours.”

  The males cleaned up their mess — which was considerable, given the panic?pooping — and I reminded them, once again, “You should seek medical help.”

  They ignored me. Or pretended to.

  That evening, as we all settled in, I noticed the males had resorted to passing notes. Actual notes. Folded pieces of paper being slid across the floor like they were conducting a secret operation.

  I watched them for a moment.

  My father scribbled something, passed it to the sitter’s husband. The sitter’s husband read it, looked horrified, scribbled back. My father read the reply and pooped again.

  I sighed. “I can read those, you know.”

  Both males froze.

  My father slowly turned his head. “No… you can’t.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can. I figured out the writing a few days ago. The signs in the restaurant helped.”

  The sitter’s husband clutched the note to his chest. “You weren’t supposed to learn that yet!”

  My mother beamed. “She’s brilliant.”

  The babysitter nodded. “She’s terrifying.”

  I shrugged. “Your notes won’t help you.”

  My father groaned. “We’re doomed.”

  The sitter’s husband whispered, “We need a new strategy.”

  I pointed at the note still in his hand. “Cliff dodging starts tomorrow.”

  Both males pooped again.

  This was a serious medical issue.

  My mother pinched the bridge of her beak. “Honestly, you two…”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  The babysitter sighed. “We’re going to need more cleaning cloths.”

  As the males cleaned up — again — the conversation shifted.

  My mother leaned toward me. “You can really read?”

  “Yes.”

  The babysitter grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote something down. “What does this say?”

  I glanced at it. “Hot soup.”

  She blinked. “Correct.”

  My mother wrote something next. “And this?”

  “Do not run indoors.”

  My father muttered, “She never listens to that one.”

  The sitter’s husband scribbled a long sentence and slid it to me. “What about this?”

  I read it aloud. “Please do not pull my feathers tomorrow.”

  He deflated. “She can read.”

  My mother clapped her hands. “Wonderful!”

  The males looked like they were reconsidering their entire lives.

  I leaned back, satisfied. “We can skip cliff dodging tomorrow.”

  Both males pooped again.

  The babysitter whispered, “We really need to get that checked.”

  The males cleaning up yet another mess, the females delighted with my new skill, and me quietly pleased that reading had become my newest weapon.

  That evening, I returned to the project I’d been working on all week — my masterpiece, my treasure, my well?earned symbol of victory. I had gathered plenty of feathers, all plucked through honest combat and tactical desperation, and I stitched them into a pillow using the scrap cloth my mother had given me.

  By the time bedtime approached, it was finished.

  I held it up triumphantly, wings spread, chest puffed. A glorious, fluffy monument to my survival.

  The males stared at it with identical expressions of horror. They knew exactly where every single feather had come from. They did not appreciate my craftsmanship. They did not appreciate my triumph. They did not appreciate the fact that my pillow was, essentially, a collection of their lost dignity.

  I didn’t care. I earned it. It was mine.

  I carried it to my small nest, curled around it like a dragon with its hoard, and fell asleep instantly, wrapped in the soft comfort of stolen feathers and personal achievement.

  The following morning, after breakfast, the ladies gathered around me.

  My mother smiled. “We’ll be your cliff?dodging teachers today.”

  The babysitter added, “Real instruction. From people who can actually fly. Although they could before the week started.”

  My excitement nearly lifted me off the floor. Actual lessons. Actual technique. Actual guidance from creatures who didn’t flap like startled chickens.

  The morning went beautifully.

  They taught me how to read the air — how to feel the difference between an updraft and a downdraft, how to tilt my wings to catch the rising currents, how to fold them just enough to slip through sinking air without dropping like a stone. They showed me how to bank, how to glide, how to turn without screaming.

  I still screamed sometimes. But less.

  By the time we returned home for lunch, I felt like a real flier — not a projectile launched by irresponsible males.

  As we landed on the porch, my mother said, “We don’t need to go to the restaurant today.”

  The babysitter nodded. “Not after the week you’ve had.”

  The moment we stepped inside, the ladies froze.

  Not paused. Not hesitated. Stopped dead in their tracks, wings half?open, eyes wide, expressions sliding from calm to murderous in under a second.

  Because there, in the middle of the living room, stood the two males — sharpening their beaks on the dinnerware.

  Not the smooth eating side. Not the part meant for food. No. They were grinding their beaks along the rough underside of the plates, scraping loudly, sending tiny ceramic flakes drifting through the air like doomed snow.

  Both males looked up at the same time.

  And both males pooped.

  Again.

  It wasn’t the first time this had happened. But it was the most definitive catch. They couldn’t pretend they were “just checking the plates” or “testing the balance” or “making sure the underside was structurally sound.”

  No. They were sharpening their beaks on the dishes.

  My mother’s voice dropped into that terrifyingly calm register that meant someone was about to suffer.

  “Why,” she asked slowly, “are you sharpening your beaks… on the dinnerware?”

  My father stammered. “We—uh—we thought—”

  The sitter’s husband tried to hide the plate behind his back. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  “It is exactly what it looks like,” the babysitter said.

  The males pooped again.

  My mother pointed toward the shelf. “You have dedicated sharpening stones. Several. In different sizes.”

  The babysitter added, “Even she knows that.” She pointed at me.

  I nodded proudly. “I use the littlest one. It gives me much better depth when I bite you.”

  Both males flinched.

  My father whispered, “She shouldn’t be proud of that.”

  The sitter’s husband whispered back, “She’s terrifying.”

  The ladies were not done.

  My mother marched forward. “You are NOT to use the plates. You are NOT to use the bowls. You are NOT to use the cups. You are NOT to use ANYTHING that touches food.”

  The babysitter crossed her arms. “Do you understand?”

  Both males nodded rapidly.

  “And what do we use?” my mother demanded.

  “The… sharpening stones,” my father muttered.

  “The dedicated ones,” the sitter’s husband added.

  “And why?” the babysitter pressed.

  My father sighed. “Because the plates are not tools.”

  “And?” my mother asked.

  “And because we keep breaking them,” he admitted.

  “And?” the babysitter added.

  “And because she bites harder when her beak is sharper,” the sitter’s husband finished, pointing at me.

  I waved while not sure how I played into the scolding.

  The ladies sighed in unison — the long, exhausted sigh of creatures who had accepted that the males in their lives were hopeless.

  Then came the cleanup.

  The males shuffled around the room, wiping up their mess, scrubbing the floor, putting the plates back, and muttering apologies under their breath. I sat on the couch, swinging my legs, listening to them get thoroughly chewed out while holding my favorite pillow. I pretended not to notice the way both of them glanced at my pillow — the one stuffed with feathers that did not only come from the two males who had raised me. Well not entirely.

  It was soothing, in a way. I decided not to dwell on that.

  A perfect end to the morning.

  The afternoon flight lesson was cancelled after lunch, and I accepted this with the calm dignity of someone who had been thrown off enough cliffs for one week. The males, however, reacted as if the universe had personally wronged them.

  My father flapped his wings in protest. “She needs the afternoon session!”

  The sitter’s husband nodded vigorously. “Yes! Absolutely! Critical development stage!”

  The ladies didn’t even look up from clearing the table.

  “No,” my mother said.

  “Not happening,” the babysitter added.

  “But—” both males tried.

  “No,” the ladies repeated in perfect harmony.

  And that was that.

  The scoldings resumed immediately afterward, and I realized I was slowly learning how to deal with males: let them talk, let them panic, let them poop, and let the females handle the rest.

  I used the quiet time to practice my writing. My letters were getting cleaner, my lines straighter, and I even started playing with numbers. Numbers were fun. Numbers made sense. Numbers didn’t scream or flap or fall off cliffs.

  When evening came, I approached my mother with my paper.

  “Are these numbers right?” I asked.

  The scolding stopped mid?sentence.

  Both males froze like prey animals. The babysitter blinked. My mother gently took the paper from my claws.

  “…You wrote these?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  The babysitter leaned in. “She wrote all of these?”

  “Yes.”

  The males exchanged a look of pure dread.

  My mother smiled. “Well then. It’s time for a math lesson.”

  I was fine with this. Math didn’t involve falling. Or feathers. Or screaming. Or males.

  The males, meanwhile, had more cleaning to do thanks to their earlier “drinking problem,” which was what the ladies now called their chronic panic?pooping. I watched them scrub the floor with the defeated posture of creatures who knew they had brought this fate upon themselves.

  Perhaps one day, I thought, I could become a healer of sorts and help them with that. But the feathers? Those would have to regrow naturally.

  Otherwise they wouldn’t learn their lesson.

  The house settled into that rare, peaceful hush that only happened when the males were too tired, too scolded, or too afraid to misbehave. After dinner, I returned to my math. The numbers felt clean and orderly beneath my claws, a welcome contrast to the chaos of daily life.

  The males behaved. The ladies watched. And I worked.

  I kept inventing harder and harder problems, stacking them like little puzzles only I could solve. Every so often, I’d glance up to see the ladies exchanging quiet, proud looks. The males, meanwhile, sat very still, as if any sudden movement might cause me to start teaching them math.

  When I finally felt like I had a good grasp on what I was doing, I looked up at my mother.

  “Is there someplace I can learn more stuff faster?”

  She blinked, then smiled. “You’ll start school next week. But… even I don’t know what they’ll be able to teach you.”

  Before I could ask more, the males jumped in.

  My father puffed his chest. “School is important for growth!”

  The sitter’s husband nodded. “Yes! Essential! Foundational! Critical development stage!”

  This, apparently, triggered a new conversation.

  My mother raised an eyebrow. “Growth? She’s already passed what they teach.”

  The babysitter added, “She’s doing math we didn’t learn until adulthood.”

  The males exchanged a panicked look.

  My father tried again. “Well—well—social skills! She needs those!”

  The ladies burst into laughter.

  They pointed at the bald spots on their respective husbands — the featherless patches I had personally created through tactical plucking, biting, and general survival?driven chaos.

  My mother smirked. “If she can handle you two, she’s mastered social skills.”

  The babysitter nodded. “She negotiates, manipulates, strategizes, and wins. That’s advanced social development.”

  The males wilted.

  I considered this. If defeating two full?grown males counted as social mastery, then yes — I was excellent at it.

  But surely there was more. Surely school had something new. Something exciting. Something challenging.

  “I can’t wait for school,” I said aloud.

  The males immediately panicked.

  My father waved his wings. “Wait—wait—maybe school isn’t ready for her!”

  The sitter’s husband added, “She might cause… civil unrest!”

  The ladies rolled their eyes.

  My mother said, “She’s going.”

  The babysitter added, “And you two will deal with it.”

  The males pooped.

  Again.

  The ladies sighed. I kept doing math. And school suddenly felt like the most exciting thing in the world.

  Instead of arguing about school or lessons, the males were whispering to each other in the corner, clearly trying to coordinate a story before the ladies noticed.

  My mother caught them immediately.

  She didn’t scold. She didn’t raise her voice. She simply said, “Whatever you’re planning, stop.”

  Both males froze like statues.

  The babysitter added, “You two are terrible at secrets.”

  The sitter’s husband tried to defend himself. “We weren’t— it’s not— we were just—”

  My father finished for him. “Talking about… weather patterns.”

  The ladies stared at them.

  I didn’t bother joining the conversation this time. I had math to do and make. I settled on the floor with my papers and started working through number patterns I’d invented earlier. The house stayed unusually quiet — not because the males behaved, but because the ladies kept giving them looks that discouraged sound.

  Eventually, I stood up and said, “Good evening. I’m going to bed.”

  My mother nodded. “Rest well.”

  The babysitter smiled. “You worked hard today.”

  The males didn’t say anything. They were too busy pretending to be invisible.

  I went to my nest and drifted toward sleep.

  A few minutes later, my father crept in. He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t whisper. He simply leaned over me and pressed his beak to my forehead.

  I snapped awake and bit him.

  He yelped, stumbled backward, and nearly tripped over his own wings.

  From the living room, I heard him say, “She’s fine. And her beak is… very effective.”

  The ladies laughed. The sitter’s husband muttered, “Told you not to poke her.”

  The next morning, my flight lessons resumed. The ladies didn’t repeat anything from the day before — they introduced entirely new techniques.

  My mother said, “Today we work on controlled descent.”

  The babysitter added, “And silent approach.”

  They demonstrated. I copied. They corrected. I improved.

  By the end of the week, I could fly as well as both of them. I could land without a sound. I could slip through air currents like I belonged there.

  The silent landing became my favorite skill. It made the males nervous.

  During dinner at the end of the week, I casually said, “If one of you sharpens your beak while the other watches the porch, we won’t catch you.”

  Both males froze.

  My mother set down her cup. “Is that what’s happening?”

  The babysitter leaned forward. “Is that why we haven’t caught you once?”

  My father sputtered. “No! Absolutely not!”

  The sitter’s husband added, “We would never coordinate something like that!”

  I didn’t realize until later that I’d phrased it like a statement, not a question. It sounded like I had evidence. I didn’t — it was just a theory.

  But the males reacted like I’d caught them red?winged.

  The ladies exchanged a look that said everything.

  The males pooped.

  Again.

  And I kept eating, pleased with my progress.