I was nervous the entire time I was driving home from the MRI clinic, and every few seconds, I glanced in my rearview mirror to make sure that they were all still following. Leading the pack was Archie, my Giant Chickadee friend. Trailing closely behind him were Rochester and Stella, two goldfinches, and Nigel and Gwyndolyn, a pair of pretty tufted titmouses. Taking up the rear was Byron, a jewel-like turquoise dragonfly.

All five, like Archie, had been dramatically inflated by a so-far-undetermined event that had occurred when they were flying in the area of the clinic. Other than their size, though, their appearances were perfectly true to their species.

The final member of that unconventional clique was Florence, a once normal, but now teeny tiny swan, temporarily nesting inside my purse.

Cautious as I was, I had thought we escaped whatever it was that I feared … nothing, really, more ominous than an overhead shadow. But suddenly, the sense of foreboding was back. At first, I felt it more than saw it. Then, like a storm cloud, it instantly blotted out the sun and spread a pool of darkness over the windshield and hood of my car.

I swerved to my right and screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the road. I pushed open the car door and leaped out: both frozen in horror and incredulous. Before whatever it was soared out of sight, however, I saw enough to register how it looked. Or, rather, enough for its features to be seared – like a hot branding iron – on the soft skin of my brain.

Within seconds, it rose into the sky. It got smaller and smaller until it completely disappeared. Less than a second later, I suddenly remembered, “Archie! Where’s Archie?”

I looked toward the back of my car and was surprised to see my friend, along with his gang of misfits, hovering in a huddle over the rear fender. Archie’s feathers were so fluffed, he looked as if he’d been plugged into a socket and shot full of static electricity.

“Sorry about that,” I said, my voice shaky. “Is everyone all right?”

The Giant Chickadee hissed, “What was THAT?”

I shook my head in dismissal, and repeated, “Are you all right? Are you fit to fly?”

Four birds and one dragonfly twittered or fluttered their response to Archie. Turning to me, he said, “Yes. We’re fine.”

I slipped back into my car, and called out the window, “Then just keep following me.”

The minute I was re-settled in the driver’s seat, I turned on my cellphone and dialed my boyfriend’s number. It rang, and it rang, and it rang. After about 60 seconds, an automatic voice asked me to leave a message, so I said:

“I need your help, Clay. It has to do with Archie, the little fellow you built the bird feeder for. He’s in trouble, and so are his friends, of whom you know absolutely nothing. But that’s going to change. Can you please come to my place ASAP. Bring all of the files, photos, and any information you can get on raptors. Any raptors. All raptors. The nastier the better. I’ll order a pizza.”

I disconnected the call, and drove the rest of the way home without incident.

Before I describe what happened next, I want to tell you a little about my boyfriend. His name is Clayton Yonder. As in “Off we go, into the Wild Blue …” Clay was raised by his grandfather, whose father was a stuntman on the 1950s television series The Lone Ranger. Clay … MY Clayton … was named after Clayton Moore, the star of that series.

I met him about half-a-year ago. It may not have been the most romantic encounter in the World’s Repertoire of Romances. But I’ll mention it briefly to put your curiosity out of its misery and explain the whys and wherefores of such an important individual being in my life.

As you know, I am a writer. On that particular Tuesday, I was researching an article on wildlife refuges within fifty miles of the county seat. It had rained all morning, and the roads were slippery. Just as I was about to pull into a parking space in front of the visitor’s center at the Harold Carruthers State Park, I lost control of my car, skidded 30 feet, and crashed into the back of a truck bearing the insignia: Federal Wildlife Officer. Official Vehicle.

Of course, if I had known before the accident how gorgeous Clayton Yonder was (a cross between Smokey the Bear and your average square-jawed, piercing-eyed hero), I would have rammed into his vehicle on purpose. However, I did not. So, even before he had a chance to get out of his truck, I pushed open my door and began to apologize at the top of my lungs.

Fast forward:

The Official Wildlife Officer forgave me. He invited me to lunch. He invited me to dinner. More lunches. More dinners. He fell in love. I fell in love. I met Archie. I asked Clay to build Archie an oversized bird feeder. He did. Archie wanted to revisit the MRI clinic. We did. Once there, we encountered other creatures who’d had experiences similar to Archie’s. l departed from the clinic, trailed by one oversized chickadee, two goldfinches, two titmouses, and a dragonfly, all also oversized (with a miniature swan tucked into my purse). A menacing monster flew out of the sky, scared us half-to-death, and I continue to drive home.

Which brings us to today.

Within minutes of opening my front door, I had turned on the fireplace and invited Archie and his buddies to warm their feathers and/or wings on anything comfortable within a reasonable distance from the flames. As to Byron, the beautiful dragon fly, I opened the door to the basement, turned on the light, told him that there should be plenty of moths and bugs down there for him, and waved him off with the words “Bon appétit.”

Then I settled Florence the teeny tiny swan on a small velvet pillow, called my local Italian restaurant, and ordered one large spinach and feta cheese pizza for me and Clay, and a plain dough pizza for all of my fine feathered friends.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2026. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com