My friend and I were shooting lizards with our little bows and arrows and putting them in a sack. I shot a little one and put it in the sack. My friend told me to get the big one; she was the little one’s mother. I was about to shoot her when she said, “You killed my child; do not kill me.” Then a fire burst from her mouth. I dropped my sack and ran up the hill. I was sick; I died. I heard voices. My mother said, “My little boy.” Others told me my feathers would grow so I could fly away. My feathers didn’t fall out and my doctors didn’t know why. A voice told my doctors that they must let me go. But I couldn’t; I couldn’t fly. I lay there, in shock, senseless. I was senseless. That is all.