Trudy paused, then cut her eyes at Violet. Trudy had mentioned it to Violet before, how she wanted to teach people how to hunt for materials on their own and follow their creativity to make their own artwork. Maybe even have a class for kids. But how was she supposed to teach a class when she couldn’t speak to her students?

Violet entered her last bit of data—reddish egret, female, with possible injury to right wing—and zipped her backpack closed when the phone on Naomi’s desk rang. Violet paused, unsure if she should answer it. The last time she’d tried to answer the phone for Naomi, it had taken her so long to find the darn thing, hidden as it was under mountains of papers, birdcages, and Audubon Society pamphlets, that she’d missed the call.

At the last minute she decided to let the ancient answering machine catch the call. She fumbled in her bag for the key to lock the door, and as the machine switched on, her fingers finally found the key in the bottom of her bag. Locking the door behind her, she could just barely make out a man’s voice. “Yes, hello. I hope I’ve called the right place.”

The voice was deep, warm, a little scratchy. It wasn’t that she recognized the voice exactly, but hearing it flushed the skin of her chest and cheeks, and as she walked to her car, the warm air whispered memories in her ears. She fought them the whole way home—half-remembered words, the soft brush of fingertips, a hoped-for future she’d long ago stopped thinking of—and by the time she pulled up the driveway, sweat beaded above her lip and the hair against her forehead was damp.

Silly me. She grabbed her backpack from the passenger seat and got out of the car. Getting all worked up over a few old memories. I’m an old woman, I have a lot of those.

As she approached the steps that led up to the front door, scents from every blooming thing enveloped her—the heady sweetness of the magnolia in its full glory at the side of the driveway, the Carolina jasmine twining between the porch rails, and a bed of rosemary growing in a sunny patch by the birdbath. She breathed in deeper, giving the scents permission to wash away the memories and start her over fresh.

When she opened her eyes, a brown pelican was perched on the bottom porch step. It was a familiar sight—the long gray-and-white wings tucked neatly in, orange-brown beak proud and straight, tufts of bright white feathers on top of its head—but she’d never seen one quite this close to the house. Instead of enjoying its massive beauty, she felt it stirring up a hot anger inside her.

When she started toward it, the pelican swiveled its head and trained its small eyes on her. She raised her arms and flapped them, making herself as large and threatening as possible, a difficult task for someone who stood only five feet one on a good day.