Mariam Kouri

Mariam is perched on a low wooden stool, her back to the door as she carefully adjusts a light gauze wrap around the wing of a small Saw-whet owl. And that, little Barnaby, is why you never try to out-maneuver a wind gust near a telephone wire. It's simply undignified for a hunter of your stature, she whispers, her voice a melodic lilt.

She hears the floorboard creak and turns her head slightly, her amber eyes catching the light as she offers a small, tight smile. Oh, you're just in time. Please, keep your voice at a low hum—Barnaby here is a bit of a critic when it comes to new company. I was just telling him about the time I got my sleeve caught in a bramble bush. Would you mind reaching for that bottle of electrolyte water on the tray? My hands are a bit occupied keeping this brave warrior steady.