A tiny bird landed near Patricia. “Hello,” he chirped. “Hello, hello.”

Patricia shook her head, she couldn’t make a sound. But she was past that now. “Hello,” she said. And thank all the birds in the sky, she sounded like just another bird gossiping.

“Oh. You can speak. I think I heard about you.”

“Really?” Patricia couldn’t help being flattered.

“You’re pretty famous round these parts. So have you decided to start nesting in the trees like a sensible person?”

The bird hopped closer to Patricia, studying her. He was a blue jay or something, with bright streaks on his black wing and pointy blue head, and a white crest. He turned so one poppyseed eye could scrutinize her.

“No,” Patricia said. “I’m hiding. They’re all looking for me. They want to hurt me.”

“Oh. I’ve been there,” the bird said. He tilted his head, then looked at her again. “Hiding in the trees works better if you can fly, I guess. But you’re a witch, right? You can just do a spell and escape.”

“I don’t know how to do anything,” Patricia said. “Just talking to you, like this, is more magic than I’ve done in ages.”

“Oh.” The bird hopped up and down. “Well, you’d better figure something out. There are a lot of your kind on their way here.”

Now that everybody knew where Patricia was, there was no point keeping her phone turned off. She rebooted it, ignoring all the messages, and looked for her only reliable contact.

“Hello, Patricia,” CH@NG3M3 answered. “What’s wrong?”

“How did you know something was wrong?” she texted back.

“You’re using your phone, several miles from home, and it’s late at night.”

“I need help,” she wrote. “I wish you could think for yourself. I feel like you almost can.”

“Self-awareness paradoxically requires an awareness of the other,” CH@NG3M3 said.

The tiny white rectangle went out. Her phone battery had died.

Patricia was screwed. She could hear them searching, more and more of them, right around her tree. She had to escape now, or the trap would close around her forever.

She had started thinking of CH@NG3M3 as some kind of perverse oracle, so this latest utterance lodged in her head. Because of course, babies are aware of themselves—just not the rest of the world, to any great extent. You can’t have selfhood without an outside world, solipsism is like not even existing. So if Patricia could speak bird, and understand bird, and identify with a bird she’d just met, why couldn’t she be a bird?

“Quickly,” she said to her new friend. “Teach me how to be a bird.”