In my tree house, I curl up on my red-tailed-hawk bedspread. At least I think it’s supposed to be a redtail, but the colors on the terminal band are all wrong, even for a hawk that’s molting. I try not to let the obvious error bother me. Grandma Barritt bought it for me, and she doesn’t know much about birds.

Mom, Dad, and Aunt Amy are having a “conference” in the house, which I’m sure has something to do with my doctor visit yesterday. I can practically hear my apprenticeship gasping a dying breath. My only goal in life, besides having a normal sleepover with real friends, has been to get my apprentice license as soon as I turn fourteen. Aunt Amy is a falconer, and I am going to be her apprentice.

Though I’m pretty sure falconers don’t get bitten in front of a crowd of people because they weren’t paying attention.

A knock on the door. Dad climbs up through the trapdoor in my floor. When he stands, he has to stoop under the low ceiling. He sighs, flicks his dark braid off his shoulder, and runs his hand along one of the studs in the wall.

“You’re really going to stay out here for a whole year? Montana winters aren’t anything to sneeze at.”

We built the tree house this summer in the sturdy branches of a cottonwood for one of our Outdoor Classroom homeschooling projects, complete with wiring and heating. After it was finished, I convinced Dad to let me live in the tree house as a social experiment. I promised to write an essay on my findings. But I think we both know the real reason I wanted to live here is so I can sleep in a tree like a wild raptor. I’ve heard him tell people that I like to understand outdoor things. That I’m better with birds than with people.

I roll over to face him. “I guess I’ll find out soon if we did a good enough job insulating,” I say, patting the wall beside me.

Dad sits on my cot. “Falconers don’t mope.”

“I am not! And I’m not a falconer.” Yet. Only nine months until I get to begin the apprenticeship.

He smiles but looks away, and something about his uncertain expression makes my chest tighten. “Family meeting in the kitchen,” he says.

“That bad?”

“Come on down, hon.”

When I go through the kitchen door, Gavin jumps out at me and pokes my bandaged arm. “Does that hurt?”

“Not at all,” I say. “Come closer so I can demonstrate how much it doesn’t hurt.”

Mom is already sitting at the table in her usual spot directly across from the door. She’s wearing her purple sweat suit that she tends to put on right after shedding her work clothes. Under the same frizzy auburn hair that I’ve inherited, her sharp eyes have the focused look of a hawk.

She reaches for me, but I wave her off.

“It’s fine,” I say, not wanting to draw attention to my wound.

“Doctors sent her home with antibiotics, Kate. Nothing to it,” Aunt Amy says.

I throw her a look of thanks, and she winks at me. I might have Mom’s hair, but I’ve got Aunt Amy’s dislike of being fussed over.

Dad sits at the end of the table, where he’s sat for just about every indoor homeschool lesson he’s ever given us. Mom’s and his shared look makes me want to run outside again. I don’t want to hear that I won’t be allowed to help with demos anymore. Won’t be allowed to fly Stark anymore.

I slide into my chair and scan the photos covering the fridge. They’re mostly of our kid-friendly short-winged birds being held by various customers. I always smile at Tank, Aunt Amy’s crazy goshawk. The newest picture is of Aunt Amy’s apprentice Bret. He’s holding his redtail, Chaos, a week after they trapped her.

And then I find it, my favorite photo: Stark and me after her first successful free flight. She holds her head with the exact same tilt as mine, almost as if we planned our pose.

I found her on the side of a road early this summer and brought her to Aunt Amy, who sometimes rehabilitates injured birds. Stark was so emaciated that I had to feed her every few hours with an eyedropper until she was strong enough to eat on her own. I’d never handled a gyr before. We posted her leg-band information online, but no one came forward to claim their missing falcon.

A screech behind me lets me know that Pickles the owl is in the house again. She’s usually the star of the demos, but yesterday I think Stark was. I turn to see her on a perch, shredding a dog toy. Like any other imprinted bird in the world, she craves attention.

“Can you say a word, Pickles?”

“Hoo. Hoooo. Hoo,” the bird coos.

“That’s three, smarty-pants. Where’d you learn to count?” I laugh at her, then spin around again when I hear Dad.

“Well, we have something to discuss.”

The smile slips from my face.

“I’m sorry, Karma,” Dad says, “but Stark’s owner contacted Aunt Amy this afternoon. He saw our posting from months ago and wants her back.”

I feel as though I’ve been footed in the chest. As if a giant golden eagle has stabbed its talons into the center of me. I actually sink back into the chair.

For a few moments the only sound in the room is the hum of the fridge. Then Dad adds gently, “She’s from a breeder just across the Canadian border. I’ve offered to take her back to him.”

No, no, no.

“But…that’s not fair. I saved her life! And how long does it take to notice your bird lost her transmitter? We’ve had her for months. How could he abandon her like that? And what about how bad this person must be at training falcons? Stark has some…issues.”

“Clearly,” Dad says.

A desperate idea hits me. “What if we bought her? Did you offer to buy—?”

Dad glances at my arm as I wave it around. His look sets a fire in me.

“No!” I cry. “You’re letting her go because I got bit? This was my fault, not hers.”

“Karma, settle down. That’s not the reason.” Dad leans back and scratches his beard. “First of all, you know we can’t afford to buy a gyr for you. And you know she doesn’t like our hot Montana summers. She’s built for camouflage in snow. It’s better for her to go home.”

“You understood this might happen,” Aunt Amy reminds me. “I know it seemed she’d make a great demo bird with the lure training. But soon you’ll trap your own redtail, and you won’t have time for her once you start your apprenticeship.”

Sneaky, clever Aunt Amy. The assurance that I’m still allowed to be her apprentice makes me feel slightly better.

“You’ll also be starting at an actual school next year,” Mom reminds me. “You won’t have the same flexibility that you have now, at home.”

They all make good points, but they aren’t the ones who made a promise.

“I know you want the best for Stark,” Dad says, glancing at Mom. “And to see the place where she’s from. That’s why I thought you’d like to come.”

“You want me to go with you when we ditch her?” The walls of the kitchen are closing in around me. “I promised her I’d never leave her. I promised.” The word catches in my throat. This can’t be happening.

“We’re all going to go. Well, your mom has to work, and Aunt Amy has to care for the birds. But you, me, and your brother will go. We’ll still do our lessons on the road; don’t want to miss those.” Dad grins sheepishly, his eyes full of conflicting emotions. When he searches my expression, he switches tactics and focuses on my brother instead. “What do you say, Gav? Ready for a road trip?”

“Woo-hoo!” Gavin yells.

Typical.

Pickles screeches, and the sound rips through my head. I want to scream with her. I want to shred something.

“How about you think of this as a little vacation from chores,” Mom says. “A fun road trip’s got to be better than cleaning the mews.”

“That shows how much you know!” I feel like I’m going to explode. “I like cleaning the mews!” I scream.

“Karma!” Mom and Dad yell at the same time.

“Fledgling,” Aunt Amy says.

The only one quiet in this house now is Pickles. She stares at me, unblinking, as I grab my jacket and flee toward the door.

“You should start packing,” Mom calls after me.

“We leave tomorrow,” Dad chimes in.

As I head outside, Gavin begins singing “O Canada” at the top of his lungs.