9. Liam
Liam
I was two steps away from the kitchen when Markie started screaming again.
“PLEASE HOLD,” the bird yelled. “MAMA. HAVE YOU TRIED TURNING IT OFF AND ON AGAIN? MAMA.”
I stopped in my tracks.
“SYSTEM ERROR,” Markie continued. “MAMA. PLEASE HOLD. MAMA.”
I turned slowly and looked at Zoey.
She stared back at me, obviously tired. Neither of us said anything for a second.
“He wants you,” I said.
She closed her eyes and sighed. “He always wants me.”
“MAMA! HELP.”
I glanced toward the bird room, then back at her. “Can I try to get him?”
Her mouth twitched. “That depends. How attached are you to your fingers?”
“They’ve had a good run,” I said.
She snorted despite herself. “That’s a death wish. Go for it.”
I slowly moved toward the enclosure, making sure my steps were even. Markie was perched near one of the enrichment trays, body angled forward, feathers tucked tight, eyes sharp. He watched me enter without blinking.
“HELP,” he said again.
“I hear you.” I kept my hands visible. “If you’ll let me, I’ll take you to your mama.”
“FUCK OFF,” Markie replied immediately.
“If that’s what you want,” I said, turning away.
“HELP,” Markie said.
I stopped. “You want your mama. I can take you to her. Or I can leave.”
“FUCK OFF,” he said again. Less certain.
I nodded. “Okay.”
I took another step away.
“HELP,” Markie snapped. Then, quieter. “HELP.”
I turned back slowly, crouching so I wasn’t looming. My knees complained, but I ignored them.
“I can help if you want,” I said. “Your choice.”
He leaned forward. Hesitated. Clicked once.
I opened the door to his cage and held out my hand.
Markie was heavier than I expected, his small form solid and warm. He shifted his weight carefully, claws finding purchase in my skin. Trust given with visible reluctance.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ve got you.”
I moved slowly so as not to startle him, keeping my other hand close to him without touching. I counted my steps without meaning to. Doorframe. Hall. Living room.
Zoey saw us and froze.
Her arms came up without hesitation.
Markie launched himself with a short, clumsy glide and landed against her chest, feathers puffing as he settled. He burrowed into her lap and tucked his head under her chin, muttering something that sounded suspiciously satisfied.
“MAMA,” he said softly.
Zoey laughed and cupped her hand around him, her whole body softening. “There you are,” she murmured.
Markie clicked once and went still.
I stayed where I was, my heart flipping wildly, which it had not asked permission to do.
“That was impressive,” Zoey said, looking up at me. “He only lets me carry him.”
I shrugged.
She studied me longer than necessary. Warmth moved through my chest, then settled there.
Markie shifted and settled harder into her, one foot tucked, eyes half closed. His feathers had smoothed down to show his contentment. Zoey’s hand moved in slow, absent passes along his back. She looked steadier with him there. Less braced. I registered it and filed it away.
I also had the immediate, deeply unhelpful urge to go cuddle beside them. To curl up onto the couch and let Zoey lean against me while the bird curled up with us, like that was a normal thing to want.
I remembered the ice cream when the freezer hummed loudly.
I took two steps toward it, but then the front door opened.
I was at Zoey’s side before I had time to think about how fast I moved, positioning myself so whoever it was would have to deal with me first.
It was a child.
A small girl stood in the doorway, with a backpack slipping off one shoulder and light-up sneakers that blinked when she stopped moving.
She took in the room in a single sweep. The boxes stacked along the wall.
The bird enclosure by the window. Zoey on the couch with her ankle elevated. Me standing close to her.
“Bobbi,” Zoey said.
The girl, Bobbi apparently, bounced in as if she belonged here. Her backpack hung open, one strap twisted. Her sneakers lit up with each step, red, then blue, then red again. She clocked me first. Then the ice cream on the counter. Then Markie settled on Zoey’s lap.
“You’re back!”
Markie lifted his head and produced a low sound that carried judgment.
“Hi, Markie,” Bobbi said. “I like your room better now.”
“ASS,” Markie replied conversationally.
Zoey didn’t react. She didn’t even twitch. “I’d call that progress.”
I let out a slow breath. It wasn’t one of relief exactly, more like orientation. This child was a known entity, not an immediate threat. I adjusted my stance, just enough to keep Zoey within reach without crowding her.
Bobbi looked up at me with open curiosity, assessing. “You’re new.”
“Yes.”
She nodded once. “You’re big.”
“Also yes.”
“That’s fine,” she decided, and then she turned back to Zoey without another thought. “My mom is on her way. She was worried I would bug you.”
“That feels accurate,” Zoey said.
Bobbi grinned. Her attention slid back to the counter where the ice cream sat softening. “Is that ice cream?”
“We were about to have dessert,” Zoey said.
“Chocolate,” Bobbi said immediately.
“With sprinkles,” Zoey added, glancing at me.
“But not too many,” Bobbi said. “Too many is wrong.”
“Correct,” Zoey said.
I moved to the kitchen automatically, started scooping the ice cream, then paused and remembered the bowls.
Zoey made a sound that stopped me mid-motion and shot me a look that carried warning and amusement in equal measure.
“No dishes.”
Bobbi nodded solemnly. “Future us will be mad.”
I put the bowls back where they belonged and carried the ice cream and toppings to the coffee table.
We sat on the floor because the couch wasn’t big enough for the three of us. Bobbi folded herself cross-legged with precision. Markie transferred himself to her knee without ceremony.
She froze completely.
“He’s heavy,” she said.
“He likes his treats. He’s getting comfortable,” Zoey said.
“PLEASE HOLD,” Markie muttered.
Bobbi smiled, careful not to move. “He sounds tired.”
“He works in tech support,” Zoey said. “We’re all tired.”
“That makes sense,” Bobbi said. “He has the right energy for it.”
I handed out spoons. I made sure Bobbi got the sprinkles first. She counted them carefully as she poured. Six. No more. No less.
“My therapist says moderation is key,” she said.
Zoey paused halfway through a bite. “You have a therapist?”
“Yes,” Bobbi said. “She helps me when my brain gets loud.”
Markie clicked once in approval.
“My therapist also helped me yesterday,” Bobbi continued, still casual, still exact. “When I found you on the ground.”
The room shifted. Zoey stilled beside me. I felt it without looking.
“She did?” Zoey asked gently.
Bobbi nodded. “I was scared. I didn’t know if you were sleeping or hurt. My body wanted to run. That happens when things are wrong. But my therapist says when my nervous system is loud, I have to slow it down before I decide anything.”
Zoey set her spoon down.
“So I sat on my hands,” Bobbi said. “I counted. I put my feet flat on the floor. I named five things I could see. Then I called for help.”
She looked up at Zoey then, her expression serious. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Zoey reached out without hesitation and rested her hand on Bobbi’s knee. “Thank you. I’m really proud of you. You knew what to do and you did it. That’s a really big deal.”
Bobbi absorbed that, her mouth twisting from side to side.
“Yes,” she said finally. “It is.” With that, she scooped ice cream into her mouth.
“My therapist says when I want to leave places without telling anyone, my body is asking for movement,” she added.
“So now I say it out loud. It helps most of the time.”
“That’s actually very useful,” Zoey said.
“Yes,” Bobbi agreed. “It’s a skill.” She looked at me again. “Does your therapist say that?”
“I don’t have one,” I said.
She turned to Zoey. “You?”
“Nope.”
Bobbi frowned. “Then who helps you when your brain needs a hand?”
The quiet that followed felt strained.
Markie clicked once.
I had answers. None of them were quite acceptable.
“I usually handle it,” I said.
“By yourself?” Bobbi clarified.
“Yes.”
She considered that carefully. “That sounds exhausting.”
Zoey made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort.
“My therapist says brains are team sports,” Bobbi added. “You don’t win by playing alone.”
I thought that over. “That’s good advice.”
“Yes,” she said. “You should get one.”
“SYSTEM ERROR,” Markie contributed.
“Exactly,” Bobbi said.
We ate quietly after that. Markie preened. Zoey leaned back against the couch cushions and closed her eyes for a moment.
A knock sounded at the front door.
Zoey shifted her weight as if to push herself up, but I gave her a look that said I’ve got it. When I opened the door, a woman stood there with her keys still in her hand, jacket half shrugged off.
“Hi,” she said, speaking past me to Zoey. “I hope this is okay. Bobbi said you were home and asked if she could come by. Is she welcome right now?”
“Yes,” Zoey said. “She’s fine.”
The woman, who I now assumed was Bobbi’s mom, let out a long breath and stepped inside.
Her gaze moved through the room without comment.
The boxes stacked along the wall. The floor seating.
The open ice cream carton on the coffee table.
Bobbi cross-legged on the rug with a parrot balanced on her knee.
“You were eating ice cream,” she said.
“Yes,” Zoey said. “It seemed appropriate.”
Bobbi looked up. “Chocolate.”
Her mom pressed a hand briefly to her chest and nodded. “Okay.”
“I did what I was supposed to,” Bobbi said. “I stayed calm. I asked before I came. Zoey says she’s proud of me.”
Zoey nodded. “Very.”
Bobbi’s mom smiled and crouched, pulling Bobbi into a quick hug. The girl endured it and shifted just enough to keep Markie steady.
“That was good judgment,” her mom said.
“Yes,” Bobbi agreed.
Bobbi pointed at me. “This is Liam.”
Her mom looked up, took me in, and offered a polite smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“And look at this,” Bobbi added, gesturing to her knee, “Markie likes me!”
“RESTART YOUR SHIT,” Markie said.
Her mom blinked.
“I’m sorry,” Zoey said. “He’s opinionated and very vocal.”
“That’s okay,” her mom said, clearly deciding not to engage with it. She straightened and glanced at Bobbi. “Ready to go?”
Bobbi stood and adjusted her backpack. “I’ll see you later,” she told Zoey. Then she paused. “Please don’t fall again.”
“I’ll do my best,” Zoey said.
Bobbi nodded and headed out, her sneakers lighting up with each step.
Her mom lingered by the door, keys back in her hand. “I can bring some meals? Nothing fancy. Just something for a few dinners while you’re recovering.”
Zoey opened her mouth immediately. I knew that look. Reflexive refusal. Polite, fast, absolute.
“That’s not necessary,” Zoey started.
“Thank you,” I said at the same time.
Both of them looked at me.
Bobbi’s mom smiled with clear relief. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll text first.”
“That would be great,” I said.
Zoey turned her head slowly toward me, outrage flashing in her eyes. I met her gaze and gave her a small wink. Her mouth pressed into a line, then she pouted despite her best efforts.
Bobbi’s mom waved, satisfied, and ushered Bobbi out into the hallway, closing the door behind them.
The house felt larger immediately.
Zoey stayed where she was. Still pouting and pretending she wasn’t.
I stayed where I was.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
She could take care of herself. She was more than capable. The problem was that she didn’t let anyone stand beside her while she did it.
I had seen the reflex. The immediate refusal. The instinct to shut it down before it could become something more complicated.
Support didn’t have to come with a cost. It could just… be there.
She deserved to experience that—even if she didn’t trust it yet.
My jaw tightened slightly as I considered the last few minutes. I had stepped in. Answered for her. Made a decision she had been about to refuse. I exhaled slowly, keeping my posture loose even as the thought settled in.
I would not do that again without asking, but I also wouldn’t apologize for doing it. Not when it meant she would eat. Not when it meant she would rest. Not when it was something that made her life easier, even if she didn’t like how it happened.
My gaze returned to her.
She was still watching me, still deciding how to handle me.
I could give her space to be angry if she needed that. But I wasn’t going anywhere unless she explicitly told me to leave.