Clayton Yonder – my boyfriend, my hero, and potentially the protector of all imperiled wildlife – did not call me that morning. He always calls before he goes to work, and even though I knew beforehand that he would be out of touch while he consulted with other Parks Service officials to identify our new and terrible predator, I still missed hearing his unflappable and affectionate voice.

Sometimes I even miss him when I’m with him.

Hell. I’m crazy about the guy.

But those sentiments had to be set aside, because at 8:00 o’clock that morning, Archie the Giant Chickadee and I were off on an errand. Or, if Archie’s gut feelings were right … a Mission of Mercy.

For him, it wasn’t one of those wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night feelings that he had failed to do something he thought he OUGHT to do. It was more a mandate in the nature of “I cannot rest until I’ve made certain that I have left nothing undone.”

I get it. I am not quite so morally fastidious, but I surround myself with people (and birds) who are. So, off we were, once again, to the MRI clinic where we had first met, where he had been transformed from a less-than-half-ounce chickadee to the Giant (three-pound, two-ounce) Chickadee he now is, and where on our first return trip, we had encountered a girl and boy goldfinch (Stella and Rochester), a girl and boy tufted titmouse (Gwendolyn and Nigel), a swan (Florence), and a dragonfly (Byron), all enlarged or miniaturized, according to their own particular experiences.

What … if anything or anyone … would we encounter this time out?

We bid goodbye to our avian and insect friends at around 10:00 a.m., drove through pretty streets, winding past elegant Tudor and Colonial houses with lushly landscaped lawns, and arrived at the MRI clinic at around half-past ten. It was oddly silent there. No cars parked in the lot across from the entrance, and nothing much different than it was the day before.

I left the engine on, so Archie would be warm inside the car (it was a chilly day), passed on to him Clay’s instructions to stay inside on peril of … well, I didn’t get into specifics, since I really had nothing to back up my threat. And when I shut the driver’s side door behind me, I was fully aware that Archie was studying me, missing not even the innuendo of movement as I slowly approached the clinic’s door. I actually felt his eyes prying into my mind, which I thought was … well … rude.

At first, however, I did not see and I was not thinking about anything. Other than that the area around the clinic looked unwholesomely abandoned. Like a ghost town. In pristine condition, but abandoned. And not just by people. It appeared even to have been abandoned by ghosts.

Creepy.

Then, I saw her.

Even before she exploded out of the bushes, I got a sense of her sauciness and sass. Her lopsided-but-delicious personality radiated charm. Jollity. Humor. Delight-in-being-alive.

Although she had appeared in much the same location as had my somewhat shy bird and bug friends of the day before, it was hardly in the same manner. Hippity. Hoppity. Bippity. Boppity. Boing. Boing. Boing. And there she was. Standing less than 18-inches from the toes of my shoes, and looking up.

What an oddball of a little darling she was!

She had all the usual markings and was the same size as a typical black capped chickadee. Just as small and just as cute. But her eyes were green, and she was covered all over with spots, like an appaloosa horse. Also, instead of her feathers being smooth and glossy, like Archie’s, they looked almost … fluffy. Like the white puff-ball seed-heads that dandelion flowers become at the end of their growth.

She looked up at me, her little dart-y head still and her little dart-y eyes gazing directly into mine.

“I’m Daffney,” she twittered merrily. “Do you want to see me pretend to fall down?”

I honestly had no idea what she was talking about, but I’m certain that my eyes popped open in incredulity. Then, straight away, she proceeded to lean back and back and back against empty air until she was almost horizontal to the ground. It reminded me of one of those “do you trust me?” games, where someone tells you to catch them at the last second before they go crashing to the floor. Except there was no one to catch her, and instead of colliding, she sprang back up with a “voilà” expression on her face.

“It’s because I was born with backward knees,” she announced proudly.

Now, I couldn’t see her legs, knees, or feet from my great height, our current relationship being something in the nature of Gulliver and the Lilliputians, so I dropped down, tilted my head sideways, and stared at the little birdy who had just introduced herself.

Daffney hopped back about six-inches so I could get a better view, and then she slowly began to twirl, as if she were a runway model displaying all aspects of an elaborately festooned gown.

What I saw from that perspective was an odd pair of skinny legs with … yup. Backward knees.

“Know what else I can do?” she chirruped happily.

“No. What?” I heard a low, unexpected voice, also coming from the sidewalk where I was kneeling, but not as far down as Daffney. I quickly turned. Archie and I were eye-to-eye. I shook my head and snorted, “God, I’m an idiot. I should have known that if I left you in the car with the engine running, you would use your feet to open the doohickey on the lock. Clay is going to kill me. I promised him that you’d stay inside. It’s dangerous to be out here. He’s…”

Archie ignored my rant, and inched closer to Daffney.

“That was stupendous,” he exclaimed.

“I know,” the little chickadee twittered gaily. “But, Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Then, she took a deep breath, bent and unbent those peculiar knees twice … as if warming up, like a dancer… and – I almost missed it – did one back flip, one forward flip, and a series of what in ballet are called “fouettés.” She ended her performance with a not-quite-demure curtsey.

Having no hands, Archie could not clap, but he flapped his wings with such enthusiasm, it couldn’t be mistaken for anything but applause.

I got to my feet, and started to applaud, too.

Daffney took half-a-second to catch her breath. “Aren’t I wonderful?” she exulted.

“Yes! Yes!” Archie replied, his entire body nodding along with his head.

“It’s because,” the little chickadee added cheerfully, “I’m different.”

Archie was so excited, he was practically bouncing up and down. “Me, too! I’m different, too

“I can see that,” Daffney affirmed. “You’re big, strong, and as beautiful as a race horse.” She raised her little head and looked right into his eyes. “Isn’t it wonderful not to be like everyone else?”

Archie said, his voice, almost somber. “I never thought of it that way.” Then he started to hop excitedly from one foot to the other, and sang out, “Yes! Why, yes. It is wonderful to…”

An instant later, everything changed. First, I sensed the merest hint of a shadow overhead. Then, but only for a second, something blocked the sun on my face. I looked up, and I saw it. I didn’t even think. I just scooped Archie into my arms, tucked him under an armpit, reached over and gently (but quickly) cupped Daffney in my free hand, and began to run toward the car. Luckily, Archie had left the passenger side door open, so I thrust them inside, and slammed the door. I ran around to the driver’s side, dived in, jerked the door shut behind me, and started the engine. We were off and away within thirty seconds.

“What … what?” Archie stuttered.

My mind on my driving and my eyes on the road, I spat out, tersely and gloomily, “It’s back.”

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.