A wild dog pokes his head in her crotch and sprawls in her lap. Awa rubs his big gray head and keeps him occupied as Crows fill empty bellies. She knows their hungry days in endless desert that once was many, many forests. Too many forests to count, gone. Awa knows sweet water and poison berries that humans can’t eat, but Crows love. In these dry times, Crows face great dangers feeding anywhere. A hawk or night owl has better aim than Holy City archers, so Crows come whenever Awa caws. She never forgets them, never leads them astray.

A Crow with several white wing feathers does not feed with the others. This Crow flies close to Awa. She sits up, quiet and still, and the Crow hops toward her, despite the wild dog. He snores, lulled to dreams by Awa’s fingers.

“I’m not dead meat yet.” Awa says what many humans say to a curious bird.

This Crow aches from barbs caught in the chest and face. Eating is hard and pain is constant. Awa has hands that have plucked berries from bushes and honeycombs from a hive. The Crow has also seen these hands pull barbs from the wild dog and warhorses and from Meera and Rokiat. The Crow hops on a boulder, close enough for Awa to reach the barbs and pluck them out. Awa holds her breath. The Crow caws, speaking of pain, asking for help, hoping Awa is not stupid like most other humans.

The wild dog stirs and the Crow almost flies away, but Awa leans in, squinting at the barbs and shaking her head. A bee buzzes in a puff of hair. The Crow caws and caws. Awa reaches her hand out. The Crow pecks her fingers to make sure she will be gentle. Awa jerks away from the beak. The Crow caws again. Quick as an arrow, Awa pulls a barb from the Crow’s white feathered breast. The Crow pecks her thumb.

“Zst!” Awa hisses.

The Crow pecks Awa after each barb, but she even tugs out one buried in the Crow’s face. Relief.

“Farts and fleas!” Awa shakes bloody fingers. “Thanks to you too.”