At nine-seventeen the next morning Ryan and I entered an office on the third floor of the McEniry Building at UNCC. Though not large, the room was sunny and bright, with a colorful throw rug overlying the institutional wal -to-wal . Woven in primary colors, stylized nests formed an outer border, and a long-legged heron took flight in the center.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves fil ed the wal to the left. Those to the right held dozens of aviary prints and photos. Bril iant, dul , tropical, arctic, predatory, flightless. The variety in beaks and plumage was astonishing.

Carved and sculpted birds perched on the desk and filing cabinets, and peeked from atop and between shelved books. Tapestry bird pil ows rested on the window ledge. A parrot marionette hung from the ceiling in one corner.

The place looked as though someone had hired an ornithologist, then consulted a “Birds Us” catalog to equip the office with what were thought to be exemplary furnishings.

Actual y, Rachel had done it herself. One of the foremost ornithologists in the country, Rachel Mendelson was passionate about her science. She lived, breathed, slept, dressed, and probably dreamed birds. Her home, like her office, was resplendent with feathered subjects, both living and inanimate. On each visit I expected a shrike or a spoon-bil to swoop in, settle in the recliner, and begin hogging the remote.

A window fil ed the upper half of the wal opposite the door. The blinds were half open, al owing a partial view of Van Landingham Glen. The rhododendron forest shimmered like a mirage in the mid-morning heat.

A desk sat squarely in front of the window. Two chairs faced it, standard-issue metal with upholstered seats. One held a stuffed puffin, the other a pelican.

The desk chair looked like something designed for astronauts with orthopedic complaints. It held Dr. Rachel Mendelson.

Barely.

She looked up when we entered, but didn’t rise.

“Good morning,” Rachel said, then sneezed twice. Her head double-dipped, and her topknot bobbed.

“Sorry we’re late,” I said when Rachel had recovered. “Traffic was terrible on Harris Boulevard.”

“That’s why I’m always on the road by first light.” Even her voice was birdlike, with an odd, chirpy quality to it.

Rachel pul ed a tissue from a painted owl holder, and blew her nose loudly.

“Sorry. Al ergies.”

She wadded the tissue, tossed it into something below the desk, and lumbered to her feet.

It wasn’t much of a lumber, since Rachel stood only five feet tal . But what the woman lacked in height she made up for in breadth.

And color. Today Rachel was wearing lime green and turquoise. Lots of it.

For as long as I’d known Rachel, she had struggled with her weight. Diet after diet had enthused then failed her. Five years back she’d tried a regimen of veggies and canned shakes and dropped to 180, her al -time postpubescent best.