I had just killed my biological father for the fourth—or perhaps the fifth—time when the crows took to the air, screaming. I leaped from my laptop, raced into the garden, and vaulted the fence into the field beyond, where an angry cloud of corvids swirled above a hunched bird of prey. A red kite had a jackdaw pinned to the ground. Without thinking about the kite’s right to its lunch, I snatched the little jackdaw away. It fit into my palm snug as a pistol. Feathers gunmetal gray. Beak like knapped flint, marked with use. Eyes sapphire blue. It blinked once. Twice. Then it was gone. Its blood drained from a gash that ran from neck to chest and spilt across my hand.
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