“Unraveling Secrets: What Lies Beneath in Youssef Biaz’s ‘Atlas Fledgling’?”
The fourth I named Pikachu. I never held him. I used flattened cereal boxes to reinforce the walls of his enclosure. I kept him next to me in bed so my warmth could protect him. But after a week, I carried him out of my room. I clutched the box with stiff arms, careful not to jostle him awake as we made our way to Baba’s study. Baba pushed his glasses down the bridge of his nose and raised his eyebrows.
“Pika should live somewhere else now,” I said, looking at my feet, my toes gripping the shag rug like talons burrowing into sand. “I can’t do it.” By then my final bird had stirred, circling his pen. Half of Pika’s feathers were missing, replaced by jaundiced patches of coarse skin, and one eye wouldn’t open. My dad pursed his lips and pulled the box toward him. I walked out of the room without looking back.
