“Then, quick, he flips the fish out onto the bank. It flops and gasps for air, its body slick.We all watch the fish die.”

“You're not coming with us," I say, realizing."If things were different, I would," Indie says, and when she looks at me, it's hard to hold her honest, longing gaze. "But they aren't. And I still have flying to do." And then, fast, like a fish or a bird, she disappears from the entrance to the hold. No one can catch Indie when it's time for her to move.”

“You told me once," I say to Ky, holding up the bud for him to see and then pressing it into his hand, "that red was the color of beginning." He smiles. The color of beginning. For a moment, a memory flickers in and out. It is a rare moment in spring when both buds on the trees and flowers on the ground are red. The air is cool and at the same time warm. Grandfather watches me, his eyes bright and determined.”

“Ky always acts as though someone watches him. And, apparently, he watches back.”

“But he is as we all are: light as air, transient as wisps of cloud before the sun, beautiful and fleeting, and if I ever did truly have hold of him, that has ended now.”

“He's throwing everything he can into the air on the chance that something might take flight. And we're the smallest, weakest bird.”

“And I realize that I can never stay in these hollowed-out places in the earth for long before I have to come up for air.”