There is an aspect of crisis management that is less dramatic than the urgency of dismantling an actual threat. It’s what I call “Housekeeping.” It deals with where one puts the soldiers -- operatives … officers … adjuncts … and spies, if any – when they aren’t fighting the good fight.

I had two goldfinches (Stella and Rochester), two tufted titmouses (Gwendolyn and Nigel), an itty, bitty swan (Florence), a dragonfly (Byron), and Archie the Giant Chickadee in my home. They had been my guests for dinner and my helpmates when I was trying to recreate on paper the creature we had encountered earlier in the day. But dinner was over and the drawing was finished.

Now what? What would they do? Where would they go? How would they exercise? What would they eat?

Returning them to where we’d met was out of the question, because the MRI clinic had become part of an as-yet-unidentified predator’s hunting ground. Letting them reunite with others of their species was also perilous, because we were still ignorant of how wide and far ranging was their stalker’s field of prey, and what lethality might await within. To venture forth into such an unknown would be like entering a Carnival of Terror, and expecting to come out with a manicure.

So … I had to make other accommodations.

I turned on the lights and heat in the garage. First, I created a small opening in the shared wall that separated the garage from the screened-in porch in my backyard. That way, my friends could get fresh air and flap their wings without being exposed to dangers from anything lurking outside.

Next, I brought two plastic milk crates up from the basement, lined them with clean towels, and gave one to Stella and Rochester and the other to Nigel and Gwendolyn. I cut a few branches off a willow tree in my front yard for Byron. Then I arranged the stems in a bucket of water, and plopped the bucket in the corner of the garage beside a fake Christmas tree. For food, there were plenty of bugs and spiders among the rafters and on the porch to keep a dragonfly happy.

As to Florence, the teeny, tiny swan, and Archie the Giant Chickadee, I let them have the run of the house. Florence usually stayed on her small velvet pillow near the fireplace, or waddled into the bathroom. I created a ramp for her to climb into the tub if she was in the mood for a swim. Archie seemed to have found his “forever home” on the mantel over my fireplace.

They ate as a group in the garage, where I provided a smorgasbord of seeds. I left the garage door open, so if any of them wanted to come into the house, they could. I know that all were itching to go beyond the perimeter of my house, garage, and porch, to roam the world at will, but …that was too dangerous.

Before I engaged in these housekeeping activities, Special Investigator Clayton Yonder took a photograph of the drawing which – with help from my housemates – I’d made of the creature we had seen both at the MRI clinic and on our way home. He emailed his photo to a wildlife specialist affiliated with the Parks Department. Meanwhile, I went into my office and made photocopies of my sketch, so that Clay would have paper images to take with him, too.

He was out the door by 7:00 p.m., determined to drive directly to the laboratory affiliated with the Avian Slaughter Task Force, to drop off the feather that I’d found earlier in the day.

“We have to identify the predator,” he said, his words clipped and his mind already on the job ahead, “before we can develop a strategy to destroy it.”

“Destroy?” I repeated quizzically.

Clay looked directly into my eyes. “You don’t stop a plague by ‘trapping’ virulent bacteria in a cage, and you don’t stop a death-dealing epidemic by reading it its constitutional rights. You eradicate it completely, or…” His eyes narrowed.

“Or what?”

“It will eradicate you.”

I followed Clay out to his car. “I’ll probably be too busy to call tonight or tomorrow morning,” he said, leaning down to kiss me. I threw my arms around his neck and elongated the kiss. When I let go, he opened the car door, slipped into the driver’s seat, and said, “Don’t go anywhere until I get back.”

He pulled the door shut and lowered the window. I leaned down and said, “I’ll have to go out tomorrow morning. But only for an hour or two.”

“Where?”

“To the clinic. Archie wants to go back one more time.”

“Why?”

“He has a gut feeling there might be a few others like him affected by the MRI, and he wants to save them.”

Clay gave this a moment’s thought, rubbing the bristle on his chin. “I have to shave,” he muttered. Then he nodded twice. Without enthusiasm.

“Okay,” he conceded. “Who else is going?”

“Just Archie.”

“Can you make him stay in the car?”

“I think so.”

“I don’t want to have to deal with the emotional wreckage of a dead chickadee in your life. So, promise me you’ll lock him.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That isn’t good enough.”

I contemplated my options.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell Archie that we can’t go to the clinic unless he SWEARS that he will stay inside the car while I poke around looking for any orphaned, enlarged, miniaturized, or in any other way biologically reconstituted critters.”

Clay laughed.

“You’re adorable,” he said.

“I know,” I responded.

And waving an arm out the still-open window, he pulled into the street.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2026. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com