“Ready.”
“One …” Noah set his feet, biceps taut as he braced.
“You can do this, Sam.”
“Two …”
“Just like Gigi’s tree.”
“Three!”
The ground fell away as Noah hoisted me skyward. The rope creaked against the branch as he adjusted his grip, and I swayed in mid-air like a spinning piñata.
“Grab the branch!”
I reached for it. Pulling myself up, I swung one leg over the branch, straddling it between my legs. The bark bit into my palms, rough and jagged, but I barely noticed. Testing my weight before moving further, I inched closer to the trapped osprey.
Water lapped below as Noah waded deeper into the lake, holding the towel above his head. The osprey’s wings fluttered weakly, the tangled line glinting in the sunlight.
“Keep your center-of-gravity close to the trunk,” Noah called up.
“I got this!” I yelled back. I was already shifting my weight,finding the sweet spot between momentum and control. Left foot wedged against a knot in the bark. Right hand gripped a smaller branch above. Push up, reach out, find the next hold.
The branch groaned under my weight, and I froze, heart racing, beads of sweat forming on my forehead. The fishing line was just ahead, wrapped around a branch that jutted over the water.
Below, Noah stood ready with the towel, water up to his chest. Our eyes met briefly, his quiet confidence steadying my nerves.
The osprey’s dark eyes watched me, too exhausted to struggle.
Just a little further ...
My fingers closed around the branch. Bark crumbled under my grip. Suddenly, the branch beneath my foot gave way with a sharp crack.
My gut dropped as I dropped. Fingers scraping, I caught myself on a lower branch, legs dangling, the harness digging into my thighs.
“Sam!” Noah’s shout echoed across the water, raw panic in his voice.
“I’m okay,” I called down, steadying myself.
Noah didn’t seem too sure. “We can find another way.”
“No.” I pulled myself up, ignoring the sting of scraped palms. “I can do this.”
I reached for the next branch, stronger this time. The osprey needed help.
“Moving up,” I announced, finding my rhythm again. Noah watched every move, barely breathing, as I closed the distance to the fishing line.
The line was within reach now. I pulled out the knife, its weight heavy in my palm. The osprey’s eyes followed my movements, too exhausted to resist.
“Almost there,” I whispered, more to myself than the bird.
Snip
The osprey dropped.
My breath caught, but Noah was there, like he’d done this a hundred times before. The towel cradled the bird as it fell, Noah’s arms wrapping securely but gently around its wings.
Noah lifted the wounded osprey clear of the water, then he was moving, keeping the bird’s shivering body above the surface as he backed toward shallower water. We hadn’t exchanged a single word, yet somehow we’d moved in perfect sync, like we’d rehearsed it all in advance.
