“Are you coming out, Rico?”

No sign.

An idea came to her. She stretched out both arms to the side, shoulder level. He made a sudden move. So sudden, she was taken by surprise. She lost her balance and rocked back on her heels. He was already perched on her lower arm; she felt his toes take hold as they gripped her right sleeve. Opposable digits. Two toes forward, two toes back.

He needed a place to land, and she had provided one.

She couldn’t stand in the middle of the room all day. She had to prepare his chop and clean the cage. She walked slowly and deliberately in the direction of the kitchen. While moving forward, she lowered her arm and crooked it slightly, broken-wing position. Here I am, she thought. With an unlikely passenger, a parrot with a crimson tail, coming along for the ride.

In the kitchen, she sat on a chair and rested her right arm on the table. Rico worked his way sideways along her ulna/radius and stepped onto the back of her hand. The sensation of parrot feet. Soft cool pads on her skin. One of the notes on the back page of the instruction sheet read: Rico is on his feet 24/7; feet never at rest. If a tender spot breaks down, bacteria could enter. To prevent bumblefoot, hygienic practices must be followed, especially wiping perches.

Bumblefoot! That was all she needed.

“Don’t start getting bumblefoot,” she said. “I am not going to be responsible for that.”

Rico glanced at her as if imparting a casual message, and then moved from hand to tabletop. Once there, he began to investigate. A pad of paper lay on the table, along with a ballpoint pen. He bent forward and grasped the pen in his beak. With natural ease, he tilted the tip of the pen toward the page. For a moment, he looked as if he intended to write a note outlining his needs. The ones she wasn’t satisfying, no doubt.

Fine. Let him make his list. She got up and turned her attention to preparing fresh chop. Later, she would figure out some sort of roosting place where he could land when he left the cage.

She set a container of water on the floor, and he dropped the ballpoint and hopped down to drink. He was entirely at ease in the kitchen. When the Grands were home, he was probably in this room with Cecilia much of the day. Pooping every ten or fifteen minutes, which is what he seemed to do. She bent forward and wiped up.

“Look at me, Rico. I’m a birdkeeper. Who would have thought? Today you’ll have beets and carrots in your chop. And bok choy and radish and turnip and herbs. You’ll even have cherries—no pits. How about that for a treat? Along with all those supplements you get in your pellets.”

Rico did look at her. She wondered what he saw.

“I’m sorry your family hasn’t come home. Maybe they’ll never come home. I guess I shouldn’t say that. You need your family. I need mine. I have two grandchildren I rarely see. Girls. They live in Texas. Maybe I can convince my boys to start bringing them for visits. Maybe I’ll fly to Texas to visit them.”