These piecemeal, trial-and-error lives made them seem like survivors of an ancient shipwreck, determined to wring a living from the island any way they could. When I first saw them running toward me at full tilt, I felt a shiver of cognitive dissonance: Aren’t wild animals supposed to run away? One yanked the knit cap from my head and landed just out of reach, fixing me with a probing gaze, and as we walked the coasts of the Jasons I often looked down to see a winged shadow merging with my own, then up to find a caracara hovering a foot or two above me. If I stood still, they would descend by
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