He quickly made his decision, bolting around the house to the garage at the back edge of their property line. He grabbed a pair of his father’s thick leatherwork gloves and flipped over an old plastic crate, dumping his mother’s gardening tools onto the floor. The crate had holes, but none big enough for the bird to escape. Then back to the bird he flew.

It was still out cold. Wearing the gloves for protection in case the bird should awaken, he gently lifted it off the ground. It felt odd to hold—alive yet limp, and lighter than he thought it should be.

The beak was razor sharp, pointed, hooked—perfect for tearing apart mice and rats. It was definitely some kind of falcon, but he would need his Audubon spotter’s guide to identify it properly.

He lowered the bird into the crate with care and was about to take it away when he noticed a small parcel lying on the ground, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied neatly with a single piece of string. The bird had collapsed on top of it.

He turned the parcel over and there was his name: HENRY LEACH VIII, WANDMAKER.

“Oh!” Henry gasped and almost dropped it.

From the corner of his eye he saw the bird begin to stir. “Yikes!” He snatched up the crate and ran back to the garage, where he quickly located a piece of plywood that he placed over the crate. He then strained to lift a sturdy metal toolbox, which he plunked on top of the plywood. The bird was, after all, a large, powerful predator.

Breathing heavily, he slammed the door shut, flipped the light switch, and stared at the captive, unconscious bird in silence. Gradually his breath returned to normal. Ten … fifteen minutes, perhaps longer, he stared. Finally, his throat parched, he decided to get a glass of water.

“I’ll be right back,” he said to the bird, just in case it could hear him. He didn’t want it to freak out and hurt itself. It would probably wake up with a lump on its head as it was.

He zipped across the yard and through the rear door, the wood-framed screen slamming shut behind him.

“Henry? Is that you?” his mother called from the basement, which she used as an art studio.

“Yes, Mom.” He hoped his voice sounded calm. “Just getting a glass of water.”

“Oh my, look at the time,” he heard her say. “Henry, be a good boy and pour me a glass of iced tea.”

Iced tea! Iced tea! There was a potentially dangerous bird in the garage that could awaken any second, and she wanted him to bring her iced tea? “Okay, Mom!” In his hurry, he spilled more on the counter than he got in the glass.

“I’ll leave it out here, Mom,” he said to her through the closed door. She started to reply, but he yelled, “Gotta run!”