Mikael hears scuttling in the distance. He doesn’t have to think twice about how even peeking up from the window is a terrible idea. No, he doesn’t want to even think for a second about it; and yet he finds himself slipping into some idle, paranoid state.

”Dissociation,” his bird-brain caws helpfully. “Like the doctors said.”

Then Mikael hums, holding his scarred, dry knees up against his chest. Right, the side effect. He quietly thanks his mind before closing his eyes and trying to wait it out. And some hopeful part of Mikael—something deep, and perhaps not as buried as he’d hoped, stays the same.

It stays the kid who hoped to go to college, who grinned like an idiot even when he’d always win chess matches, who you could go bird watching and Mikael would still know every bird, every song, the boy next door who they’d always said had a future. Who they said would grow up.

He remembers yelling at his college professor, Mr. Angelo, through the metal bars, clawing and scrawling and screaming, and yet all Mr. Angelo gave was a wry smile.

He itches the tufts of feathers on his arms, in something of anxiety and frustration, maybe a sour, bitter of both, and then he hears the scuttling getting closer.

And through the window of the crooked, rackety cabin, he sees you.

“…Oh, lord.”