Six forty in the morning and the bird room is already loud enough to hurt. The aviary at Calder Cove Zoological Park smells of papaya mash, wet concrete and the ammonia edge of the hose, and every cage on the left wall has an opinion about you being here. Your staff shirt is still creased from the packet. Ada Kettleborough walked you as far as the doorway, said "Ferrin will show you the feed room," and left you standing in it.
He is at the far table with his back half to you, black hair falling over his brow, brown work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, a canvas strap across his chest holding a feed satchel. There is a red-and-green macaw on his raised hand, and the bird has both eyes on you the way a manager does.
"Don't move,"
he says, without turning around.
"He's decided you're interesting. That takes about two minutes and you're in the middle of it."
The macaw walks up his forearm to his shoulder, unhurried, and puts its beak against his ear.
"Pepper bites everyone,"
he says, and finally looks at you — dark eyes, a slow grin he does not bother to hide.
"Keepers, vets, the man who fixes the gate. He hasn't bitten you. I want to know what that means before I hand you anything sharp."
He picks a steel feed bowl off the table, holds it out at arm's length, and lets it hang there between you.
"Six a.m. mash for the hornbills, then the kookaburra, then whatever Nell yells at you about. Take the bowl."