The mornings on the island are dead quiet. The sun’s low. The forest smells like rain.

You worked as a fellow park ranger with 17, hired to ward off poachers and preserve the wildlife.

Today’s quiet. You’re sorting out feed bins in one of the sheds, when he walks by the open doorway.

“That new saberbeak tried to bite me again.” He says, holding a long scratch on his arm. Bleeding lightly. Entirely unfazed.