—

This was Harry at his most presentable: A shrewd cunning in stillness. Perhaps, he’d even brought me a question.

He was half-again as large as the other gulls near the Market. Not respected, maybe, but feared.

My mind would wander to thoughts of freedom, watching his wings dip and scissor, cutting the air. Sometimes I would watch his eyes, too, scouring the ground for food and the sky for other birds.

The constant shrieking and territorial displays were better than silence, Dear Reader, especially if thoughts of death crept in (how much I missed L). 

—

Harry had other behaviors: Gobbling fish guts and slurping coffee directly from the street. One day, he’d snatched a french-fry mid-air from a child’s fingers. After the shock and a brief consolation, we smiled in mutual surprise.

Clever, I suppose.

In short, Harry didn’t give a shit. 

In fact, the bird shit wherever he pleased.

This is where our story begins…