We shouldn't be doing all these missions together, but we have been, and the results are disastrous. Mary is always yelling at Gillian, Alex, or I, but sometimes she's just yelling. When Dylan's sent along to 'supervise', he can kind of shut her up, but he mainly just seems upset that we've found a grand total of nothing. Red acts similarly, but he barely comes along, ever. He just nods when we get back, finishing Dylan's sentences for him as if everything we said were a foregone conclusion.

"Are we sure we're checking thoroughly?" I ask during our latest mission. It's the second time we've checked the city, because it's the most likely candidate. Dylan goes over the newspapers, picking them off the stand, reading them, and putting them back, while the rest of us stand in the air-conditioned convenience store and pretend to look at the various conveniences we have no need for. It smells great in here, but we're low on funds due to the hotel run, and I don't mind fried rat that much. We had our fair share of good food at the house... anyways.

Alex shakes his head. "I don't know about you guys, but I don't think we're doing much of anything." His face is marred by a jagged scar which has barely started healing, even though it's been almost a week. Red fought with Alex and Mary forever on that one. Alex said he liked the scar. People tend to like whatever their afflictions are a whole lot more when Mary does it to them. Eventually Red just said that it was inevitable that Mary would beat someone up, which Mary agreed to. It didn't help her case, but there are sometimes even I can't help her.

"I think we just need to stakeout the area. Our current camp is equidistant from the three cities that seem like our best bets right now. We walk a few hours, cycle through them a while, and eventually we'll just... it'll work out." Dylan says with a dramatic flourish of his hands. "You know what? Let's just go home."

On the way out, I notice, for the third time, that there's a little sign outside one of the nicer buildings in town. It's near the suburbs, lodged between it and the innermost part of the city, a low-lying building that smells violently of something thick and mysterious, an alluring taste that is food and yet not quite any food I've ever tried. There's a sign out front, several, in fact, which I had Mary translate for me last time we were here. I walk past in silence, not daring to press my hand to the wall.

Live instrumentation tonight. Audience participation welcome.

I'm going to die, I tell myself, but I think the fragile, hollow-boned bird in me wants to die living.

There's some burned rat waiting for us when we get back. We already ate some garbage and then stole food from one of those nice little fruit stands that you find everywhere on certain days of the week, for whatever purpose, so I give Mimsy my rat. I want to tell myself I need my strength, but I don't think a rat is going to help. It might do the opposite of that.

"I've never liked it cooked," Mimsy says, tapping the rat with a hand. "You can eat it raw if you shift."

"Thanks, I'll make sure to uncook it next time before giving it to you," I tell her. "Sorry. That was mean."

Mimsy tilts her head and grabs the rat in her mouth before going to sit next to Dylan and Red, a ways back from them so she's out of the heat of the fire and everyone's gaze. I put my head against Mary's shoulder. "Someone's tired," Mary notes.

"I'm super tired," I say. "I bet everyone's tired. What if we just went to sleep?"

"Someone's eager," Gillian says.

"These patrols are taking a lot out of me." Not... completely false?

"You could come with us, if there's an issue," says Red, kindly.
"He can stay in his lane," Kali says. She has her entire hand gripped tight around Elle's arm.

Elle looks dispassionate. She rises, her legs extending in a sleek motion, and goes to lie down away from the fire. "Kali. Come here."

"We're not in a house anymore," Dylan says. "Which means we can all hear you two making out. Do us a favor and keep the volume down."

"I am not interested tonight. Kali. Sit."

Kali elbows Elle a little, which is the mildest elbowing I've ever seen Kali give (she once hit me in the chest and my whole body hurt for a day), and then she conforms. Elle gives us all a dark look, bolstered by the sudden flare of embers from the dying fire, and I think about Mary leaning in in the woods. I remember her grabbing my chin, forcing it up... where was it that Red interceded?

My stomach feels a little hollow. "Can we please go to bed?" I ask weakly.

"Kali, kill the fire," Red says.

"Kali, do this. Kali, do that," mutters Kali. "Do I look like your dog?"Still, she raises a hand and the fire sucks back into itself, becoming a plume of smoke and disappearing. She lowers the hand with a thud, and we're all drenched in darkness. The cloudy sky is clearing up, not that it ever actually rained, but the moon and stars don't provide enough light, and we're all keenly aware of it.

I must wait what seems like hours for them to actually go to sleep. I don't know if I've missed it. I don't know if they're being extra secure tonight. There are so many thousands of things that could go wrong. My heart is pounding inside of my ears. It's in my chest, my throat, behind my eyes... not one part of my body isn't filled with fear. I shift into a jackrabbit and bounce away before taking a bird's form, going from animal to animal and heading swiftly to the city... but I still feel all the eyes behind me. Everything that moves in the dark could kill me.

I shouldn't be doing this.

I keep moving.

I can't do this.

I'm in the city.

I wouldn't do this unless I had to.

I'm opening the door with my own hand. I take ownership of my actions, finally, breathe deep, and sense the night winding down. A ukulele coalesces out of the darkness into my hands, becoming reality as it hits the light of the bar with its warm, oaken shades, and the small crowd sees me in the door. I had wanted my own ukulele when I did this, I had wanted to do this as myself instead of this two-feet-taller approximation I'm putting on, and I had wanted to be brave, but I want to die. My stomach feels like wet dead animal and dead plant matter, mixed into one of the ugly, fly-filled pools I've seen at the edge of some ponds.

I look up. "Um, are we still allowed to... do I need to write my name somewhere... nice to meet you all." There are so many eyes. Do I have to say something?

"You caught us between acts near the end of the night, but we're open til midnight past that," whispers a woman. She has coppery hair, which makes her look almost like a deer. I don't think I've felt so at home in a crowd of humans. The entire crowd is filled with bright-haired birds, and right now, one of them is taking the stage, crowned in blue. The woman smiles, handing me a pad. "Near the end of the night. Would you like to close us out?"

I nod vigorously and write down what I think looks like my name. I grin, lopsided as that is, and sit down. The air is intoxicating. The little bar smells like the nebulous dark liquid that I see people with all the time, usually in big, bright, shiny cups. It smells almost like chocolate, but a more sinister version of chocolate, inviting and yet definitely alien. I want to grab one but I didn't bring any money. I think you need money to purchase things, right? People seem to just be grabbing the icing bread... cookies, right? I think so.

The bird-woman on stage grabs my attention back and she sings. She doesn't have an instrument, she's not even following a melody, but every word out of her mouth is brilliant. She talks about rivers, but I get the sense from the way that she describes the water, the way it crests, and the almost human attributes she gives it... that she's actually talking about a woman.

I am breathless.

The next person takes the stage as applause bows the first out. I grab a cookie right behind another woman (there are a lot of women here) and ask, "Do you need to... pay?"

She shakes her head. "Complimentary."

This is the best night of my life. I think I'm going to die in heaven.

The performers continue, each one folding into this common melody until I can almost hear the whole building pounding with the applause. Percussion for the night: the beat of feet. People scuffle back and forth, breathe in unison, seize up on the dramatic use of words, and when people rise up with an instrument, they weave through their songs the rhythm of the night, already coming into being. I see another ukulele take the stage, with a woman behind it, almost brandishing it forwards as she says to the mic, "I'll be doing a cover of Freckles and Constellations."

I don't know this song, but I know it's about love. Most of them are. There's so much love in the room, in the warm lighting, in the way people talk and hug each other, and still there's the underpinning of...

The heartbeat grows more violent. I can sense the room seize up. "Our last performer for the night, can you please come forwards?"

Of course I had to be the closing act. Feet hit the ground. The clapping subsides. I move forwards and sit before the microphone, the pole thin as Mary, and something else takes me. I grab the mic, say, "This one's untitled, but if you think of a name, tell me later," and the ukulele sings. I pull up the chords, down the chords, and suddenly there are lyrics. I don't know what I'm saying. I don't know what they think. I have a thousand eyes on me, a hundred million, I have all the stars on me, and I am practically tucking my Veritas back into my body as all its power wants to rage out of me. I want. I need. I pull in from the crowd, send back all my energy as the ocean hits and recedes from the tide, and all I can think is that I have always, always, always been meant to be this, no longer a person but part of the room and the universe. This is what art is. This is the story I was meant to tell. It sounds a little like my friends, everything I've ever wanted to say, but it's hidden under layers of metaphor I didn't even know I had.

Metaphor. That's it. The act of comparing two unlike things. I am a bridge between two unlike things, human and beast, I am metaphor, I am song, I am...

I see a familiar streak of ginger in the crowd. My heart seizes on a note that almost goes sour and I bring it back in, bowing back from the microphone. It tips and almost screeches, but this is finally met by applause. The whole crowd cheers in time with my heartbeat, that is, quickly as physically possible. "Thank you," I say. "Have a good night."

I dash off the stage and make from what I think are the human restrooms. I need to vomit until all the words come out of me. I'm sure there's something I didn't quite get out.

Someone has my hand. I bolt halfway out of myself, my nerves all going utterly frantic, and then I see that the face that meets mine is kind and completely unrecognizable. Unless this is Dylan, hiding his stripes on his back, which is unlikely, this is a stranger. I feel my expression soften, feeling a little like a small animal of some kind being held by a child, and realize that despite the sheer amount of power the person across from me has over my fate (unknowingly), I am likely okay. "That was incredible."

"Oh! Thanks. Did you..." I pause. "Um, what's your name?"
"Anna," she says.

How do you talk with people again. "Nice weather out?" I say. "Good... performances? Um. Sorry. I don't usually... um."

"Hey, no need for formalities. I'm not really a small talker," she says. "I believe that with the right kind of conversational knife, you can get right to anyone's heart. Especially the kind of people that come here. I don't think you want to talk about the weather, either, so let's jump to the chase. What inspired you to write about an abusive relationship like that?"

"That was what you heard?" I ask.

"Forests on fire," she says, nodding as if I'd said something brilliant. "It's one big metaphor for a relationship that's going downhill, right? Honestly, I've never heard ukulele sound angry, it's not really used for that, but you didn't exactly make it sound like a ukulele either."

I think my face is on fire. "I improvise everything. I don't have much formal... how do you say... I don't learn from any people. Just the trees, the birds, and whatever else happens to be talking."

Her jaw drops. "You made that up? All by yourself?" She holds my hand up for the whole club to say. "Hey folks, he made that up! Goodness gracious, pardon my latent southernisms, but what the freakin' heck? That was amazing!"

Several people are looking my way. Oh no oh no please don't. I ask, my voice dead in my throat, "Latent southernisms?"
"Yeah, I guess I did pile it on a little strong there. I moved out here to get away from my parents a few years ago. Gotta go be your own person, right?"
I could do this every night if I wasn't scared stiff of everyone else in the group. "I... oh, I wish I could do that. I don't think I have that confidence. It's been nice, uh, meeting you, but I think I have to go..."

She nods. "Fair, fair, but we should talk more! You have to give me your number."
"I don't have a number." I pause. "I have one friend who has a phone, but the thing is, I don't exactly have his number memorized... either."

"Wait, seriously?"

"We're hiking across the country." I close my eyes. I think I'm done talking with people forever now, but somehow, this fails to end. "Living off the land. No contact with anyone."

Her mouth drops open. "Wow! We've had a lot of interesting people in here, and you're going in the hall of greats right off the bat. Maybe a little young, though? Not that I'm judging. You are eighteen or older, right? Hate to kick you out, but there are rules on this kind of thing."

"Yes..." I say. I don't think I could make a fake ID if I tried to pull out of my pocket... and what if she tried to grab it? I've seen Mary extend a tendril of organic matter between her and the object she's creating, but it looks painful, and I don't have her tolerance or her ingenuity. I close my eyes tight, asking someone, somewhere, that she doesn't ask for my ID. "I'm sorry. I should really go."

"Man of mystery," she says. "Look, are you sure there's no way for me to reach you? I don't want to pressure you into anything, but your music really spoke to me. I just got out of an abusive relationship myself a few months ago, and listening to you... I don't know. It brought something out."
"I have a Youtube? DamienSings. It's um... new." I say. "I do need to go. Sorry. Bye, Anna." I barge through the small crowd and the scent of oak back into the night air. I can feel it dizzy around me even as I hear her voice, but I'm a bird before anyone could have caught up to me and then I'm gone.

I look up, ascending towards the sky, and let all the fear melt off my wings, only to be replaced by a new batch of oh no I need to sneak back everything was a bad idea why did I do this what's wrong with me I should never have come here I don't know why I'm like this I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. In spite of it all, I manage to still myself for a few moments and look right up at the stars.

For a second, I was one of them.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid.

Yeah.

That's all it is.

I'm so very dead.