It’s been several weeks now since D-Day, but we still cannot go outside without looking up, in fear of being attacked by a dive-bombing Terror Bird. That’s just reflex, of course. And little by little, we’re getting used to a life of sunshine, blue skies, smiling people, singing birds, and freedom.

Freedom. Oh, my gosh. It’s delicious.

There have been many changes in this oh-so-welcomed interval (may it last forever!) of happiness. For one thing, our bird buddies don’t have to stay inside my house anymore … or restrict themselves to my screened-in porch if they want fresh air. And so, within days after having rested, healed their wounds, and roused their own spirits (a tricky job while still mourning the loss of our adorable Daffney with the backward knees), Rochester and Stella, the oversized goldfinches, and Nigel and Gwyndolyn, the equally enlarged tufted titmouses, departed from my house to gather seeds for the winter. Even though that’s not necessary, as my gargantuan bird feeder will always be filled for them with premium birdseed.

Nevertheless, we all do what nature tells us to do, and what we have been trained to do. Don’t we? Meaning that neither songbirds nor wise humans ever take abundance for granted.

Florence the itty-bitty swan – at our urging – has decided to stay on. Clay, just now, is putting the finishing touches on an outdoor pond in my back yard that (I helped him) he built himself. It’s got everything a well-heeled swan would require, including a pond liner, a water pump, a water heater, a filtration system, a beautiful border of rocks and boulders, and lots of delicious aquatic plants and algae for her to eat. Supplemented, of course, with fruits, vegetables, and grains to be provided courtesy of “the management.”

Other than a few decorative touches, the pond is finished, and Florence already spends most of her time there. Visited daily – no surprise there – by her goldfinch, tufted titmouse, dragonfly and chickadee companions. All of whom also love to splash around and get wet.

Bryon’s broken wing never did heal, but the brilliant Park Department veterinarians crafted him a new one of mysterious lightweight synthetic materials that looks quite natural. In fact, Byron is so proud of his new wing that he likes to come up to me and Clay and ask us to guess which is prosthetic and which ones are real. Of course, we know, but we pick the wrong one often enough to give the little guy a big thrill.

Clay says that Byron is still in love with me, but if that’s true, it isn’t an intrusive love, so I don’t care. Anyway, it’s fun to push around a vacuum clean with a dragon fly sitting on my shoulder. Makes me feel like a character in a Walt Disney cartoon.

Which brings us back – no, I did not forget – to Archie. My Archie. My Giant Chickadee Best Friend.

For the time being, at least, he is going to stay with me. He has his fireplace mantel for when he wants to be inside. And the rest of the world for when he doesn’t … although he spends a lot of time hanging out with Florence at her pond.

How is the big little guy doing?

I think he’s fine. And as the … what did I call him before our battle began? “Second-in-command to Clayton Yonder and Grand Poo-Bah of a mixed flock in our War Against Terror Birds,” he was masterful. Calm under pressure. Brave. Bold. Daring. Heroic.

Poor Archie. So young to have had so many burdens put on his shoulders – if he’d had shoulders. So young to have lost the love of his life.

Hmm. There I was, pondering all that had happened to us since the last truck pulled out of the maintenance garage to haul the last Terror Bird carcasses to the crematorium.

It was a mild and sunny late November afternoon. Definitely sit-outside-in-the-sun weather. I was reclining on a lounge chair watching Florence splashing around happily, to Clay’s amusement or annoyance (probably both) as he was repositioning a series of large rocks to create a waterfall, when Archie fluttered out of the sky, and perched at the foot of my chair.

“Let’s go,” he said. I thought somewhat irritably.

“Go where?”

“I don’t care. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just not here.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know why. I’m feeling antsy.”

So, I got up, called out to Special Investigator Handyman that we’d be gone for a while, and walked to the car. When I opened the drivers’ side door, Archie flew in and settled on the headrest of the passenger seat.

Since Archie didn’t care where we were going and I had no particular preference, I let the car decide, and was a little – but not much – surprised when I found that we had driven back to the most important place in our mutual lives: The MRI clinic.

Within seconds of parking, both Archie and I were sitting (he perched beside me) on the low slate wall where we’d first met. I said, “The second time we came here, you were having an identity crisis because of your size. That’s when Rochester, Stella, Nigel, Gwyndolyn, Byron, and Florence – kindred souls also enlarged or shrunk by that defective MRI machine – popped out from the rose bush beside the front door.”

I paused for a breath, and then started, “The third time we were here…”

But Archie cut me off. “Third time’s the charm. Isn’t there an expression like that?” He began. He added, “But I’m not sure what it means.”

“It means that if you put in the effort two times and don’t succeed, you surely will be rewarded for your persistence the third time around.”

Archie chuckled. “Well, we were rewarded, weren’t we? Because that’s when we met Daffney.”

I chucked, too. “Do you remember the first thing that she said to us?”

“Oh, yes,” my Giant Chickadee replied. And it was uncanny the way he flawlessly imitated her merry twitter: “I’m Daffney. Do you want to see me pretend to fall down?” Archie tilted his head to one side. Then, in the same voice, he added her joyful follow-up proclamation, “It’s because I was born with backward knees.”

I heard a sob catch in his voice. For a long moment, we were silent. Finally, I asked, “If you want me to, Archie, I can look into whatever the mishap was at the MRI clinic, and find out what went wrong. Maybe they can reverse the process, and return you to your original size.”

But Archie shook his head.

“Thanks, but no thanks. If I hadn’t become this repulsively large, I wouldn’t have been able to lead an Avian Airforce against the Terror Birds. Same for Rochester, Stella, Nigel, Gwyndolyn and Byron. We did what we did because we were big enough to do it.” He shrugged. A very characteristic chickadee-type shrug. Then he added, “We became what we became. We are who we are. And we’ll stay what we are. Our size has served us well. But thank you for offering.”

Instead of responding to all of the good things he said about himself, I homed in on the one bad thing. “You aren’t repulsively large,” I insisted. I reached over and stroked his soft, feathery head. “You’re perfect.”

Archie nodded.

I nodded.

Then I cupped my right hand under Archie’s chin – if he’d had a chin – tilted his head up, leaned over, and kissed him gently on the beak. When I pulled back, there were tears in my eyes. But my voice was cheerful.

“Ice cream?” I asked.

His response affirmed for me that he had a future; we had a future; and the future might be a very happy place to be.

“Ice cream,” Archie replied. His voice strong.

And we drove home.

THE END

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