The screen door slammed again as he raced across the yard and into the garage. He was so preoccupied with getting back to the bird that he sat down and stared at the crate for a full five seconds before he realized the bird wasn’t in it!

The hastily built cage was completely intact—crate, plywood, toolbox—and sitting atop the toolbox, giving Henry the evil eye, was a large, angry falcon.

Henry swallowed with an audible gulp. He tried to remember what not to do when confronted by a predator. He had seen plenty of animal shows and even recorded a few to watch over again.

Don’t look them in the eye—they could perceive this as a challenge and attack. Henry averted his eyes.

Play dead. Too late for that. But perhaps he could try holding his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and held it as long as he could. He heard his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. When he could no longer stand the lack of air, he exhaled with a loud whoosh.

Too late, he realized his mistake. With a single flap of its wings, the falcon perched atop Henry’s head, its sharp claws poking through his short hair and into his scalp. Henry winced but didn’t panic. A small whimper escaped his lips, and the falcon hopped off, back atop the toolbox.

The toolbox that was on top of the plywood. Not knocked over and spilled on the floor—but right where he’d left it.

“How did … ?” he began, when the bird winked one eye at him.

“No way!” he whispered. The plywood was bulky, and the toolbox was filled with hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, and even an electric drill. This was no small toolbox. Yet somehow, the bird had knocked them off, gotten out … and replaced them? He looked again at the sides of the crate. The only other explanation was that it had managed to squeeze through one of the holes …

The bird slowly shook its head from side to side. Was it reading his mind?

Henry nervously rubbed his hand through his hair.

The bird gave every indication that it could understand him. “That’s impossible,” he said aloud. Again the bird shook its head no. “You understand me?” Henry asked, not quite believing he was carrying on a conversation with a bird.

In reply, it waggled the feathers above its eyes, much as a person would wiggle their eyebrows. “Birds don’t have eyebrows,” he said.

The bird shrugged its feathered shoulders, rolled its eyes, and hopped down off the toolbox to the floor, where it picked up the wrapped parcel.