There were no feathers, though my father looked torch an oily, smoking star he bid me follow north. We found bones. Cracked open for their marrow, stacked in heaps against the walls too brittle to be clever no matter how my father willed it. He took one with a sharpened end kept it in his palm, even while we slept. I knew he feared the dark. We ate beef, until the maggots set in and then we built ourselves an escape from the ruins of its ribcage. No feathers, only broken bone. No feathers, only broken hope.