When My Heart Joins the Thousand(57)

I want Stanley. I want his warmth, his calming scent. But Stanley isn’t here now, and that’s my own doing. I have to deal with this myself.

The men are nowhere in sight. I circle toward the back of the truck.

Inside, pairs of small, reflective eyes stare at me through cage bars—more unwanted animals. I see a few scrawny, mangy cats, a quivering brown dog with one eye, and an obese guinea pig. And there, in the back, almost obscured by the other cages, is Chance. It must be him. The mass of brown feathers inside the carrier cage is motionless, and for a sickening moment, I think I’m too late—then I discern the slight rise and fall of his chest. He’s alive. Sedated, most likely.

I climb into the truck, grab the carrier, hop out, and start to run—then freeze. The other animals stare at me, glassy-eyed with fear.

If I set them free, where will they go? I can’t care for them myself; I don’t have the room or the resources. They’ll be alone, probably frightened. There will be no guarantee of survival. But if I leave them here, they’ll definitely be killed.

The dog whimpers.

The cages have simple latch locks. I flip them all open. Sometimes, an animal that has been caged for a long time will choose to ignore an open door, preferring the comfort of captivity. I can’t force them to escape. All I can do is give them the option.

But I won’t leave Chance. I’ve destroyed nearly everything that matters to me, but I can save him, at least. I can do this much.

I seize his carrier from the truck and make a dash for my car. My body feels oddly weightless, yet I seem to be moving in slow motion, as if I were running on the moon. I open the door, shove the carrier onto the passenger seat, and fumble with my keys.

As I drive, the world floats past, and my mind seems to be suspended somewhere outside my body, like a balloon. Beneath the thin layer of calm, there’s a rising tide of panic.

For now, I’ll take Chance back to my apartment. There, I’ll have a minute to calm myself and analyze the best possible course of action. Somehow, I’ll make this work.

He’ll need food, so I make a stop at an exotic pet store, home to snakes, iguanas, and a few large birds. I buy a box of frozen feeder mice sealed in individual bags, stiff and cold under the clear plastic, like white furry Popsicles.

I arrive home, elbow my door shut, and set the carrier cage on the coffee table.

Scrape, scrape. Chance’s carrier wobbles. He’s waking up.

When I unlatch the door, he lunges out and tumbles onto the couch in a feathered heap. His beak is open, his copper-gold eyes pinning with agitation, pupils dilating and contracting rapidly.

I reach out. He leaps off the couch, flapping his wing hard, and slams against the window; his claws snag on the curtain and rip it down. Tangled in cloth, he falls and flops around on the carpet. I grab the curtain and tug it off, freeing him. He promptly tries to launch himself into the air again and instead crashes into a pile of books and magazines, scattering them. His talons splay across the glossy cover of a science fiction paperback as his wing and tail feathers fan out, seeking balance.

For a minute, he paces the room, his movements rapid and jerky. His tail feathers lift, and a dropping falls to the floor.

Well, the carpet is already filthy. The excrement practically blends in with its dirty off-white color.

Breathe in, breathe out. Focus. One problem at a time.

I spread some newspapers across the floor. I tape some more on the window to replace the torn curtain.

Next: food for my new houseguest.

In my kitchen, I boil some water on the stove, then turn off the flame and submerge the frozen mice in the kettle. They bob up and down, beady black eyes staring up at me.

Keeping a bird of prey is illegal unless you have a license, which I do not. I have to be careful, but as long as no one finds out about Chance, he should be safe here. For a while. The bigger issue is my newfound unemployment.

For eighteen months, my job at Hickory Park Zoo was my anchor. It was proof that I was a functioning adult, that I could make it on my own, that I wasn’t the useless, helpless burden that so many people assumed I was. And now it’s gone.

I can’t afford to waste time moping. Rent is due in five days, and I have sixty-two dollars in my checking account. I need a new job.

I squeeze one of the bagged mice, making sure it’s soft and squishy. Then I unbag it and deposit it on the floor near Chance’s feet. “Dinner,” I say.

Chance cocks his head and blinks with his inner eyelids, filmy membranes flicking across the bright orbs. He punctures the mouse’s belly with his beak and pulls out a long string of guts, like pink spaghetti.

Sitting on the couch, I power up my laptop and do a search for jobs in the area. Burrito Mania, the Mexican takeout place a few blocks from my house, is hiring.

I bring up an online application. On the screen, a cartoon burrito in a sombrero smiles at me as I read the first question: So, why are YOU passionate about working at Burrito Mania?

I don’t know how to answer this. I don’t understand why anyone would be passionate about working at Burrito Mania. I’ve been told before that “I need money” is not an acceptable answer, even though that’s why most people are looking for work. I finally write I like burritos, which is both true and relevant. It’s possible that I’ll get a discount on the food if I work there. In the interest of full disclosure, I add that Mexican food makes me gassy, so I try not to consume it more than once or twice a week.