Tenzin sat on a flat stone by the village well. Three children chased each other around the big banyan tree. A red kite tail fluttered past and landed in the tall grass.
She picked up the kite tail and held it tight. Then she crept toward the bamboo grove, bare feet pressing into cool moss.
She found the kite — and something else. A small brown bird lay tangled in the bamboo roots. One wing was bent. The bird did not move.
Tenzin cupped her hands around the bird. It was warm. It trembled. She carried it back to her house and set it on an old cloth in the corner.
She filled a shallow dish with water and put a few grains of rice beside it. The bird pecked at one grain.
Day three. Tenzin opened her hand and the bird hopped onto her thumb. Its feathers were smooth now.
It tilted its head and let out a soft, clear chirp that sounded like a tiny bell. Tenzin smiled — a real smile, the kind that reaches her eyes.
Tenzin walked to the village square with the bird on her shoulder. The children from the well stopped playing and stared. She said, "Her name is Rinchen." The girl giggled.
