He woke up to the sound of melodious squawking and bright rays of white-lilac light. He’d left the window open, and a bird had pushed the curtains aside, letting in a stream of morning glare. It hopped on the sill and continued to squawk, chirrup and yap to some kind of half-tune. The bird was about a hand high, purple-feathered with a hook beak and a tall, jagged white crest. It shifted feet constantly, cocking its head at him. A trill, Jay’s mind remembered. Native to Appalia . . . Is that where I am? He got up, stretched, and shooed the trill away. It yapped again, and then took off, the
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