It was too young, thin translucent skin stretched over half formed bone, black swollen eyes still sealed shut.
Instinctively she picked up the thing, the fall should’ve killed it, instead the peeling bark of it’s birthplace intervened. It clung to life.
Tiny stumps that would form wings pushed into her palm as it nestled against the warmth of her skin, her stomach churning with barbed horror as she realized what had happened.
It was so weak it had been rejected.
Even if she found the right nest, it would just get pushed out again. She couldn’t put it back, not where she found it, nor where it came from, helpless, alone, it’s life rested in her hands.
Lo had been terrified of birds since the first time she met bold, ravenous city seagulls as a small girl, something only made worse during each subsequent encounter. Yet the little creature, limp, barely clinging to life, hardly resembled the swarming, mobbing, snatching things of her nightmares - it seemed so fragile on her palm.
Walking back to her apartment, her hands cupping the tiny bird, it was like watching another Lo, one she struggled to recognise. What had possessed her to touch it, to pick up the gross thing that seemed nothing like a bird, it was so ugly, so helpless...
Once she got home she’d call bird rescue, she decided, they’d take it.
Her local bird rescue, as Lo found out countless teary phone calls later, didn’t take chicks, she surprised herself, fighting this hard for a damned bird.
Part of Lo suggested giving up, letting nature play out, assuring her she’d done as much as any reasonable person would. It was a part she’d never listened to, not when her marriage had taken a wobble, not when she’d got the hospital report, she wouldn’t start now.
No, giving up was never an option, and after that last call, she couldn’t consider it.
"Chances of survival are very low past this point, there's very little point in trying, it’s only a painful prolonging of the inevitable" —sentiments that were all too familiar.
She’d told the bird rescue center the same thing she’d told her doctor sixteen stolen months ago.
"Fuck you."
Raising a baby bird is no easy task. She started with forums, sharing pictures, trying to figure out what kind of bird it was, what to feed it.
It needed a heat lamp, feeding throughout the night, food carefully pushed out a syringe. The tiny thing went crazy for that, blindly bobbing and shaking. It got more food up her wallpaper than it ate!
But it grew. Slowly, then by grams each week.
Its dark eyes opened, pale skin thickening, puckering with the nibs of quills, feathers pushing out further every day, its beak growing longer - until it finally looked like a bird.
Lo didn’t see a bird.
She was still as scared of birds as ever.
No. Lo saw another fighter, that just needed someone to believe in them.
Written for the 31 sentence contest hosted by 
