And Wind noticed something interesting. Sometimes a new conure would arrive — a stranger, from somewhere across the water. Conures fly far. Island to island. Faster than any current. Faster than anyone can swim.

And some were friendly. They liked him. A conure would land on his shoulder just to say hello.

Sharks forget you.

Birds remember you. And birds go places.

He found a plant with a hollow stem — some sort of bamboo, thin as his finger. With the lens he burned through it, going around and around, into small wooden rings: light, and sturdy, and just big enough to slip gently over a bird's foot.

He made every cut edge smooth, so it would never scratch a small bird leg.

Then he gathered the sunlight down to one bright point again, and wrote — slow, careful, the smallest letters that said the biggest thing:

WIND
LOST