The Bird

The bird was barely alive. It lay on the floor near the jungle gym, one wing bent at an impossible angle. Around it, the playground had gone quiet. A few minutes earlier, the air had been filled with shouting children and the squeak of swings. Now everyone was staring.

The bird twitched.

A girl covered her mouth, surprised.

A boy turned away, unable to bring himself to look.

Mrs. Han stood frozen beside the slide, uncertainty written across her face. Nobody moved. Nobody wanted to touch it.

Kai stepped forward. He was six years old.

The bird's chest rose and fell quickly. Its eyes darted wildly. It was afraid. It was hurting. Kai knew that much.

He crouched beside it. The grass pressed against his knees.

For a moment, he watched. The bird tried to flap its broken wing. A sharp, desperate movement. Then another. And another. Each attempt worse than the last. The playground remained silent.

Someone behind him sniffled.

"Can somebody help it?" a girl whispered.

Nobody answered.

Kai looked at the bird. Then he picked it up. The tiny body trembled in his hands. Warm. Fragile. Suffering. He tightened his grip. A quick motion. A soft crack.

The bird went still.

For a second nobody spoke.

Then a boy's voice broke the silence.

"Why did you do that?!"

Kai looked down at the motionless bird.

"It was hurting."