The cold sea wind lances through me while the world below becomes a muddle of bright and dark, even the moonlight beginning to disappear as patchy clouds roll in.

  Inside me, I could hear, “Please, let’s land,” but it got lost in the stronger feelings: RUN, FLEE, HIDE, and even that was a bit blurred. I’m just a passenger going along for the ride.

  I’m not sure how long I, or the eagle, flew on. It’s muddled right now. It feels like hours, but it could’ve been minutes. The strain on our… I give a small shake of my head to clear the cobwebs. I mean, my wings are burning, and I can feel myself tire, but the need to move on remains. It would’ve been beautiful if it wasn’t so scary and dark.

  Our… my mind locks onto the lights below as we fly. Streetlights. Windows. Whole lives. I can’t stop wondering what they’re doing down there… what my family is doing now that they’ve left me behind. Just allowing us to fly for the moment rather than worry about it. It felt easier to let the eagle control things.

  Every light below was a mystery, a life lived, a life I might have lived. And then I see something that makes my human mind curious: a single streetlight with nothing around it. Maybe there are things hidden under the trees, but it’s just at a crossroad, no houses or other lights nearby. Kind of how I felt right now, just a single, lonely, abandoned light, not even really in control, just there and existing.

  I watch the light pass beneath us, and weird vertigo hits as I try to turn my head back, but it won’t go past a certain point. Dizziness hits, and my wings bank to the side, trying to compensate. A hard gulp comes with it, and I try to look under my belly, but that’s even worse. I can’t look straight down without my vision spinning. I only catch the last glimpse out of the corner of my eye before the darkness swallows it again.

  The darkness slides beneath us, and we drift along with this detached, empty interest. The ache in our wings matches the ache in my heart, with confusion twisting through both. How could my dad not want me anymore? It hurts, but I have to admit I’m not surprised. My dad has always been logical and quick to get angry, so maybe he doesn’t want a son anymore.

  I try to shake it off, but the world twists hard. One second it’s binocular-sharp, the next it’s normal, and it keeps flipping until my stomach drops. It’s weird and confusing, and the more I fight to clear my head, the worse it gets.

  I’m glad, for the first time, that even though I feel like I should be sick to my stomach, I can’t seem to be. Maybe I’m just better adapted to it. I decide to let the eagle fly and try to think less about everything else. It’s a weird, distracting feeling, like doing two things at once. We focus back on our flight, still unable to tell where we’re heading, and the tiredness keeps growing.

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  Our wings flap occasionally as we search for a place to land. I know we need to, and my eagle finally seems to agree. The more I focus, the more I feel every twitch and micro-adjustment in our wings and tail. Bit by bit, I coax us lower, aiming for a tall tree ahead. It isn’t much shelter, but it’s better than being out in the open. At least that’s what we tell ourselves.

  With some effort, and maybe helped by exhaustion, we descend. My arms, well, wings, are burning. I have no idea how to land, but as we get closer, it at least looks like a good spot. Our vision zooms in. It was tall, but there were a few other trees nearby. I hope it’ll shelter me from the cold and snow as we start a slow descent toward it. The eagle seems to agree as it angles down toward one of the branches.

  There’s no energy left for circling. We’re close enough. We just go for it. The eagle tries to back wing to slow our descent, but it only partly works. It pushes too hard, and our feet slam into the branch. Our toes grab the branch, the bark scraping against my scales, as I flap my wings, trying to steady us. After a few final flaps, we manage to stay upright on shaky feet, half adrenaline, half exhaustion.

  I’m just calming down when a sudden shiver of cold runs through me. Snow from a branch above dumps onto my head, triggering a full-body feather shake. It takes me a moment to calm down again and warm back up.

  We pant, exhausted, as the sea breeze and wind blow past the tree. Thankfully, the eagle has settled on a spot a bit sheltered from the wind and lower down, so if it snows or even rains, we’re not completely exposed. I try to gather my thoughts, but they’re muddled and confused. The eagle wants to close our eyes, but my mind is too wild. Every tiny noise makes me jerk awake all over again.

  I can barely see the tree, let alone where I am. I don’t know how far I’ve flown. All I know is it was north, with the coast on my left. Am I still in the Powell River district, or did I fly halfway to Alaska? In the morning, I’ll have to figure out where I am and hope I can find my way home. I try to close my eyes, but the eagle tucks my head under my wing. It feels both comforting and strange. It’s definitely not something I’m used to, or even sure why I did it, but it feels right.

  We just start to feel relaxed when I hear a loud, weird hoot followed by something like a woman screaming. Then I realize it’s the same sound repeating nearby. My eyes widen as I look around for the source. The eagle’s instincts don’t know the bird, but they know it could be a threat. Seeing nothing, it closes its eyes, while I’m fully awake and nervous.

  Our feathers fluff out as I press against the cold bark a little more, trying to relax. That scream was unnerving and piercing. I keep opening my eyes and looking around, half-expecting something to attack us. This is the first night I’ve ever been out alone at night, at least trying to sleep.