Sophie went to the tree where the green birds had been seen. There was one high above, squicking and chirping loudly — and it saw her. Sophie held a piece of fruit out flat on her hand, and stood very, very still.

Watch and think. And sometimes: wait.

A conure fluttered down. It knew, somehow, that a slow hand with food in it means a friend.

Someone, somewhere, had taught it that.

And there, on its little foot, was a ring of pale wood with two small burned words.

Wind. Lost.

She recognized his Wind signature in an instant.

"Found," Sophie whispered.