Feathered

When I was three years old, Mom plucked a curly white feather out of my neck. If I get scared or the loneliness comes over me, I run my fingertip over the tiny scar and dream about the day the rest of my feathers will grow in. That’s the day I’ll fly away from here. For eleven-year-old Finch, there couldn’t be a better time to fly away from her life.

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