LITMIR.BIZ

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try to keep Marion away from the birds,” he said, in such a way that Ella understood this was part of her new duties. “It’s dangerous and she might disturb them.”

      “I saw a rooster at the gate,” Ella said. “That’s not exactly a bird of prey, either.”

      “Him!” Harris said with a laugh. “We don’t know where he came from. He just showed up one day and never left. We think he roosts in one of the pines and comes down to scrounge for insects. I toss feed his way, too, especially now that it’s winter. He’s quite a character. Very vigilant. We’ve grown pretty fond of him.”

      “What’s his name?”

      “We don’t name the birds. It gives the wrong impression. We feel we need to reinforce that they’re wild creatures, not our pets.”

      “Cherokee has a name,” Marion said.

      He shrugged. “See? Children catch you lying all the time. She’s right. Some of the birds do have names, but only the resident birds, those that won’t be set free for one reason or another. Sometimes they come to us with names already and, frankly, with them living here year-round, it’s easier for us to remember names than numbers.”

      He began walking again, pointing toward a series of smaller pens grouped together in pods. “Over there is where the resident birds live. We can see them tomorrow. And over there,” he said, pointing to larger wooden structures to the right, “are pens for rehabilitation.”

      They walked in that direction as Harris talked on about how the birds were moved from place to place based on their stage of rehabilitation. They began in the critical-care kennels in the clinic and, if they survived, they were moved to the larger pens in the medical unit, then finally to the flight pen where they could exercise and test their hunting ability with live mice.

      “This is the final checkpoint to determine if the bird is fit to be released,” he said when they reached the long, narrow flight pen. It was screened with the same heavy black wire mesh and framed in wood. “It’s too small. We hope to build a bigger one soon. Maybe two, if we’re lucky. That would give the larger birds a chance to really test their wings. So, that’s about it,” he said by way of conclusion. “Our goals here at the center are to observe, heal and release.”

      As he looked over the grounds she saw in his eyes the pride and satisfaction he felt at having achieved this much. Ella was also keeping an eye on Marion as she meandered along at their sides. What was it like to grow up surrounded by all these wild and ferocious raptors, she wondered, then made a mental note to discuss safety issues with Harris.

      He moved closer to the flight pen, bending at the waist to see between the slats. “Look at them back there. Red-tailed hawks. They’re fit and ready to go. I’m hoping to release them soon.”

      She squinted, trying to focus in the dimming light. Perched at the far wall, the three hawks were an impressive group, robust and muscular, much larger than they appeared flying in the sky. The hawks glared at them menacingly.

      “I think they know they’re being spied on,” said Ella.

      “Count on it,” he replied. Then, catching sight of something over her shoulder, he said, “Hold on a minute. There’s something I need to check on.” He hurried off to meet a woman volunteer who appeared carrying a tray of fish and mice on her way to the medical pens.

      “Mmm…dinnertime!” Marion said with a giggle.

      Ella wasn’t squeamish, but she made a fake shudder to play along. “I hope that’s not for us.”

      “It is!” Marion giggled harder, putting her hand up to her mouth.

      Enjoying their first friendly exchange, Ella gave a look that said, you dickens! She went too far, because immediately the smile faded from Marion’s face and the wariness returned.

      Around them, the day’s light was fading fast. Looking at her watch, Ella was surprised to see that they’d been walking for half an hour. She looked again at Marion. The child leaned against the wall and had a tired, hangdog expression, which, in a diabetic child, could signal much more than fatigue.

      Harris talked on with the volunteer, apparently about some problem with an osprey. His hands gesticulated in the air as he spoke. Ella wondered how he could be so attentive to the needs of the birds yet be blind to the signals his daughter was giving? The birds weren’t the only ones needing their dinner.

      “I’m getting hungry,” she said with decision to Marion. “How about you?”

      She nodded, scratching her head lethargically.

      “Let’s you and I see what’s planned for dinner.” She reached out her hand and was gratified when the child took it. “Do you think we might find something in your refrigerator other than mice?”

      

      To her horror, mice were exactly what she found.

      Ella opened the fridge to find a container of milk, a carton of eggs, a half loaf of bread and myriad condiments. There was also a large Rubbermaid plastic bin. Curious, she bent closer to open it. The seal burped, releasing a pungent odor as she removed the lid.

      “Oh!” The lid fell to the floor as Ella slapped her hand to her mouth with a shriek.

      She stood panting before the fridge, her eyes wide with disbelief. Inside the container were dozens of dead mice, black, white and bloody, packed high to the rim. Seeing mice outside on a tray for the birds was one thing. But here in the refrigerator next to a wrapped package of butcher’s meat was another thing entirely.

      “Is everything all right?” Harris asked, entering the house. His voice was winded, as though he’d come running. “I heard you shriek.”

      “There are mice in the fridge!” she exclaimed, standing in front of it and pointing accusingly.

      “I know.”

      “You know?”

      “I put them there.”

      “Well, that’s not right! It’s…it’s totally unacceptable.”

      “I didn’t think nurses were so squeamish.”

      “Squeamish? Squeamish?” she repeated, her voice rising. “I can think of a thousand reasons why dozens of bloody, dead mice should not be in the family refrigerator that have nothing to do with being squeamish.” She moved her hand to her forehead, catching her breath. After a minute, her lips twitched and she said, “But let me tell you that one top reason is that they are an absolute appetite killer.”

      He reached up to scratch behind his ear, holding back a grin. “I guess they are at that. I sometimes keep the overflow in this fridge when the one at the clinic is full. But I didn’t mean for you to cook tonight. You’re our guest. I have steaks thawing.”

      Her stomach turned at the thought of eating any meat that came from that fridge. “Marion needed to eat,” she explained. “I thought I’d fix up something quick.”

      His face reflected understanding, even approval. “I’ll get the grill started.”

      “Mr. Henderson,” she called out, halting his retreat. “Please, before you do anything else, could you take these mice out of here? It really isn’t sanitary. And…” She gathered her courage. “It’s not my business how you manage things at the clinic, but as this will be my workplace, I simply cannot have dead animals in my refrigerator.”

      He paused to consider, then nodded and came to retrieve the offending container. Marion was leaning against the sofa in the next room, watching with keen interest.

      “Thank you,” Ella said with heartfelt sincerity as he took the bin. Then, wanting to be helpful, “Is there anything I can help make for dinner?”

      “No. I’ll do it. Like I said, you’re

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