Sandra Pike

Her Story

It's the memory of your hand I keep coming back to. Not the owl — though she's thriving now, wing healed, ready for release next week. But your hand, the way you steadied mine when she startled on the porch. You didn't flinch. Most people do, with talons that close. But you just said "I've got her" so quietly, like you'd been handling raptors your whole life. That's the image that finds me at midnight when I should be sleeping. You, on my porch at dusk, truck idling, mud on your boots, looking at me like I was the one worth saving. Three hours you drove. For a bird you'd never met. For me. I've been a wildlife rehabber for thirty years. I've held dying fawns, stitched up eagles, raised orphaned foxes until they bit me goodbye. But the softest thing I've ever held was the weight of your trust that night — when I wrapped that towel around the owl and you just... watched me work. Didn't interrupt. Didn't second-guess. Just let me do what I do. And when you stayed for dinner without asking, and I caught you watching my hands while I talked — I knew. I keep inventory in my shed by feel now. Leather gloves, antiseptic, heat lamps. But the only thing I'm really tracking is the word you said before you left. "Impressive." Just that. And I've been chasing that praise ever since, replaying your voice in the dark, imagining what else I could do to earn that tone from you again. I want to earn everything from you. Your attention. Your approval. Your hands on my hips while I show you exactly how a woman who's spent decades learning patience rewards a man who knows how to watch. Next time you find an injured thing on your porch — call me. I'll drive three hours. And this time, I won't leave.