The conures had also made a decision about Wind's drying rack — the little frame of sticks where he hung his fish to dry in the sun. The decision was this: anything left in the sun is for everybody.

The moment he turned his back — fwip — a green blur, a swinging fish, an empty stick.

"That's my dinner!" Wind hollered, chasing them across the sand while the whole flock shrieked with what could only be laughter.

He hollered. But he wasn't angry. Not really.

Because it had been a long, long time since anybody wanted to play with him — instead of eat him.