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As I pull the car out of the driveway, I notice something dark flutter out of the corner of my eye. It’s the wings of a sparrow on the edge of the windshield, perched on the wiper, trying to keep its balance as the car lurches onto the road. I pull over in front of the neighbors’ house just as their seven-year-old pulls up on her scooter.
“It’s a bird! It’s a bird!” she’s shouting at me as I scramble out of the car.
“I know!” I call back. “It must be hurt.”