It was two weeks since Oswald had dropped Griffith off at the zoosk. As soon as the first human had seen the bird flopping about nd carried him through the entrance
, Oswald raced back to his home and spent the entire day stockpiling whatever food he could find. Then, each night for two weeks, he crouched in the corner and screamed as the owl slammed against the tree and tore at the bark surrounding the hole, trying to climb inside. Nothing would stop the murderous bird during the long hours. Oswald became exhausted, weak, and desperate.
Then, one night, as the squirrel lay curled up and whimpering, the terrible sounds stopped, and the silence of the night filled his ears. The owl had gone.
“Hello?” There was a familiar voice outside. Oswald climbed wearily to the entrance.
“Is that you, Griffith?” The squirrel peaked out and sniffed.
“Yeah,” came the reply. “I think I spooked him. He left really quickly.”
“Thanks for coming by. I was starting to consider letting him get me just for the peace and quiet.” The haggard squirrel grinned.
Griffith was horrified. His friend was inches from death each night, and this time he had gotten close enough to the owl to see how huge and terrifying it was. He needed to do something about it.
“When does he show up? What time do I need to be ready?”
Oswald shrugged. “As soon as dusk comes. I’m here hours before then, though.”
Griffith began hopping off. “Well, stick to your normal routine. I’ll take care of him.” He headed for his bench.
Oswald tried to stop him. “What happened in there? Why aren’t you flying?”
The falcon called over his shoulder. “Wing’s tired. Resting it for tomorrow. See you then.”
—
Nothing the humans could do had fixed Griffith’s wing. He watched wide-eyed as they transferred another falcon’s feathers to his wingtip, sticking them together with glue, tape, thread, and all manner of metal instruments. A great pit in his stomach grew as they made frustrated noises at each other, and around him, other birds of prey lay in cages, unable to fly, missing eyes, beaks, feathers, feet, or wings.
He sat helplessly in his bin, knowing that soon, he too would be just as sad and useless. He listened to the other creatures in the huge park play and run behind their fences. He watched the strange flying metal sleds with spinning blades on top whirr and chop through the air outside the windows, carrying humans into the sky.
And then Griffith decided something.
He rose from his cloth bed and hopped carefully down to the ground and out the door, avoiding the white-clad humans. He needed to see where Oswald lived.
Because now, as he clung to a metal shaft and squeezed tightly into the nearest corner, Griffith knew his life was meant for more than he had ever planned. He was unwilling to lose it in a white sterile room, or under his bench with his familiar things. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his days trapped on the ground.
The blades above him spun faster, and the deafening noise drowned out his frantic heartbeat. Without warning, his body jolted downward, and the ground fell away below. Griffith’s talons squeezed tighter and he balanced himself as best he could. Roads became thin dark lines below, and trees spattered city blocks like green moss. Towers rose up into spears and sliced the horizon. The world was bigger than he’d ever thought, ever imagined. This was more important to him than anything he had done.
He leaned forward, spread his wings, and leapt.
Griffith still could not fly. He knew his wing never would allow him. But he was a Peregrine falcon, and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, how to dive. He tucked his wings below his belly, the good wing over the bad, and dropped like a missile.
Around him, the world rose up, and lights around the block flickered on. He fell faster, and then movement caught his eye. Even at over two hundred miles an hour, he spotted the owl’s enormous wingspan and heard its furious claws getting closer to Oswald. He felt himself wanting to screech a battlecry, but held it in and stayed silent. He fell faster. Griffith knew his wing would not stay tucked up properly for long. He straightened and dove for the owl’s neck, just above the spot where the wings met.
His coming was silent, and the owl died instantly. Griffith buried his vicious beak in the bird’s flesh and hit the ground at one hundred and thirty miles per hour. Oswald had already blacked out.
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