It still catches me off guard, how easy this has become.
How natural it feels to sit here barefoot in the weak spring sun, stealing chips off his tray, talking nonsense about a traumatised hamster like this is something we do.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
I decide not to examine that and reach for another chip.
That is when the shadow moves.
At first it is only a flicker over the patio stones.
Then a violent rush of wings.
A seagull drops onto the threshold with the confidence of an armed robber.
I yelp.
The bird lets out a harsh cry and lunges towards the open paper wrappers.
Inside the cage Heath bolts upright.
Then all hell breaks loose.
He launches into the side bars so hard the cage rattles.
“Oh my God—”
I’m on my feet so fast I nearly send the chair over backwards.
The seagull flaps again, enormous and furious and far too close to the cage.
“Heath!”
Mark moves before I do.
One second he is in his chair, the next he is across the patio.
He snatches one of the paper wrappers and slams it towards the seagull with a sharp shout.
The bird jerks back, offended, then takes off in a storm of wings and noise.
Mark is already through the doorway.
He crouches by the cage and drops his voice immediately.
“Easy,” he says. “Easy.”
Heath is ricocheting inside like a tiny furry pinball.
I am beside Mark now, heart hammering far harder than seems reasonable for a bird incident.
“Oh God, he’s terrified.”
Mark unlatches the cage with calm, efficient movements.
“He’s alright.”
