When I first met Flick, it didn’t occur to me that he was a strange creature. He had a pair of jet black wings sprouting from his back, beautiful golden eyes, and a mouth that never smiled. All I saw was a sad little boy who needed my help. His wing had been injured and his shining eyes had a haunted look that always stayed with me. I was only seven then, and I had spent two lonely months out in the middle of nowhere, desperate for a friend.
I gathered supplies and helped him doctor his wing while I told him about my boring summer vacation in the country. In return, he solemnly told me of beautiful places beyond the clouds that he was afraid he’d never see again.
By the end of that day, we were laughing together as we ate freshly baked cookies and drank cold milk. That night, I dragged sleeping bags and pillows to my treehouse to make him comfortable. I told my parents I was making a fort and wanted to camp outside. They were relieved I was out of their hair, so they let me. Flick and I ate our midnight snack, bundled up in the sleeping bags, and fell asleep snuggled together under the stars.