“Who knows? Just close your eyes.”

The night lingered on. The wind picked up, rustling the trees all around us. After a moment all the kids stood and gathered around the monkey bars, sat on the swing set and the merry-go-round. Wyatt began his story:

There was an orphan boy from far away, and he was very afraid. They brought him and put him in our room, where he slept for a long time. He was younger than the rest of us, and much sadder. When he awoke, night had fallen and we were in darkness. The room was cold. The only light we had was a small lamp. Every night it was turned on when they brought us dinner. The light flickered and threw our shadows against the wall, which looked like images of the crucifixion. Most nights the older boys whispered prayers in a language we didn’t know. Upon waking, almost immediately the young boy began to cry.

The older boys grew angry. “Stop it,” one of them said. “They’ll kill you!”

“They’ll cut out your tongue,” another told him. “Do you want to die?”

But he wouldn’t be quiet. He kept moaning and crying until they came downstairs and opened the door and looked at him. They looked around the room at the rest of us, rubbing their fat bellies like devils.

They were all silent, waiting for Wyatt to continue.

“It’s weird,” a girl said.

I watched him speaking, a half-grin on his face. I watched his mannerisms, the way he gestured as he talked. I saw Wyatt looking at me, then, and I knew this look was it. This look, so familiar.

He put a finger to his lips for everyone to be quiet. He cocked his head to one side, as if he were trying to listen to something from far away, but everyone looked confused. Then he jogged over to me and asked, “Can I please take the others into the woods for a minute? I need to check on something. We’ll be right back, I promise. Just wait here.”

I hesitated, but something in his voice made me agree. “Be careful and come right back,” I called out as he motioned for the other kids to follow him. “All of you.”

What was happening now? The boy had something planned. I took out my phone from my purse and saw a text from my sister, Irene: Ray-Ray’s spirit is strong today, sister. Earlier I saw a vision of the mountains and remembered how much he loved the stories of the Tunwi Tsunsdi.

I texted back: You sense his spirit today?

I sense it right now, she wrote. It’s as if he’s near me.

Before I realized it, I looked up from my phone to see smoke rising in the distance—a fire had started somewhere in the woods. Smoke was streaming from the trees, visible even in the darkness, and I began to panic. I rushed toward the woods, yelling Wyatt’s name. They must have walked directly into the fire, which scared me so badly I felt my chest ache. Frantic, I called out to them but heard no response—they had disappeared into the woods. And now guilt came over me suddenly: What had I done, letting them walk into the woods alone? I pulled out my phone to dial 911, my heart racing. Flames jumped, burning fiercely now, the smoke billowing larger. Ashes were falling from the sky. I heard voices crying out in the distance.

Suddenly they emerged, each of them, like ghosts in the night, running out of the trees together, holding something white above their heads. A white owl with glowing eyes in the night. I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing—was the owl attacking them? But then I heard their laughter. They were having fun. And what of this owl? It perched high in all the kids’ hands, this owl rescued from the flames, which was exactly what the kids were calling out for me to hear: We rescued the owl! The baby owl! See it? It’s alive!

They ran in a cluster, with Wyatt leading the group, in the dark night, under the moonlight. I heard the fire engine sirens in the distance now, the smoke billowing heavier from the woods. The kids stumbled to a halt, turning back to look at the flames, yelling and talking over one another excitedly. A small girl was holding the owl now, and I saw the owl begin to rustle, eyes glowing. Then the owl outstretched its wings and flew away, soaring away from the woods, the kids cheering.

“Rescuers!” they chanted to each other. “Long live the owl! We saved the owl!”

They were elated as they walked back to the shelter, checking their hands for scratches from the talons. I followed behind them, trying to catch my breath, my heart still racing. Firefighters were swarming to the woods, the flames slowly subsiding. Smoke was everywhere. We made our way back inside the shelter, where the kids were still reeling from all the excitement. They talked excitedly about the owl and the fire, all of them still breathing heavily.

We gathered in the commons room, and the staff was able to settle everyone down. A counselor served cookies and lemonade. Soon the fire chief told us that the fire had been started by someone burning trash and had gotten out of control from the wind. Firefighters were able to put it out quickly before it spread. A few of the kids were bleeding a little on their hands and needed Neosporin and bandages, but they all claimed they didn’t feel any pain. One boy, Nicholas, had a deep scratch on his right thumb, which he said didn’t even sting.

“It’s all adrenaline,” one of the shelter volunteers said. “The rush, the endorphins.”

“Speak English,” one of the boys said.

“Calm down.”

Another boy: “Don’t you understand something majestic has happened here? We saved a baby owl. We found its nest in the woods, and the baby owl wasn’t moving! It was too scared, and we rescued it.”