Unsatisfied with and, frankly, scared of the mushrooms, you continue your search. You push your nose against the cold, rocky surface to find anything that could keep the baby bird fed for even a fleeting moment. It is getting difficult. Other than the occasional spot of mold, there really is not much to work with.

You get so entranced with your search that you tune out all other sounds in and out of your cave. The sound of rain fades beyond background noise as you try to focus on the survival of the bird.

Finally, you find a small, green plant growing in a crevice on the wall of your cave. Is it grass? Is it a tiny tree? Maybe a flower? Perhaps a strange lizard pretending to be a plant because it has social anxiety? It is difficult to tell. You excitedly yank the stem with your mouth and pull.

You turn around to find the baby bird.

But it is gone.

What is left is a puddle of water that continues to grow.

You go outside, thinking that perhaps the baby bird was taken by the harsh storm that is developing.

You cannot see very well.

You cannot hear very well.

The baby bird is gone. Lost to the forest.

The green stem is still in your mouth. You chew on it. It does not taste too bad. You go back into your cave, hoping that the baby bird was just your imagination.

You choose to…

• …let the baby bird die.