The squirrel’s guts are cold and starting to rot. A short string of intestines, dry and purpling, trails away from the carcass and across the cracked cement floor of the alleyway. It twitches and flops with each peck from a crow, puncturing the organ and claiming pieces to throw down its gullet. The clap of its beak ricochets off the dirtied brick walls surrounding it, each opposing side home to several floors of independent shops, vacant rooms for lease, and infinite construction inside. Although affordable, downtown is a hard sell for businesses.

Strips of moonlight peer between the buildings and lay over the crow. Black feathers shimmer with an indigo iridescence, separating into multiple layers as the bird shivers against a passing breeze. The sound of its midnight feast is quickly overcome with echoing footsteps, and the crow scrambles to inhale another few bites before a growing shadow blocks the peaceful nighttime glow and it soars to the top of one of the buildings.

Hopping along the edge of the flat roof, the crow watches its prey as a young man, hands in his pockets, breaks the corner. Wings slap with annoyance, watching the man approach the dead squirrel carelessly until almost stepping on it––to which he stumbles to avoid the corpse and grimaces down at the scene.

“Fuckin’ disgusting.”

Peering down, the crow cocks its head at the man’s voice, who leans against the brick and lights a cigarette. It begins to step towards the bright burn of the smoke, intrigued. The light dies out as the man exhales, then shines warmly once again with an immediate second puff. The bird is so entranced by the light of the flame that it does not hear a second set of footsteps until the moonlight is disturbed again, causing the crow to flutter.

A hood shadows the second face, though it is young, younger than the smoking man, but the crow doesn’t know the difference between adult and child. This second person hesitates, looking around and into the street before dipping between the buildings. They do not see the squirrel or its innards, so soft, worn sneakers squish the bird’s food as they trudge towards the man. The crow ruffles its feathers in response.

Just like the child didn’t see the squirrel, the man doesn’t see the child. Not until they’re a foot apart, and the younger one sways, tugging at the black sleeves of their hoodie.

“Can I have one?”

The smoker looks up from his nicotine trance and at the shorter individual. There is enough light still cascading down the alley for the crow to recognize the same grimace the man offered the dead squirrel earlier, placed upon his face again.

“You’re like twelve,” the man says, then turns his head and brings the butt of his cigarette to his lips.

“I’m fifteen.”

“Then you should probably get home, it’s a school night.”

The crow’s head bends again at the man’s tone, but the child bounces with impatience, glancing to the street and back at the man. “Come on, just gimme a cig.”

Twig-like legs shuffle and talons clack with the crow as it shifts on the rooftop, its head turned to the side to watch the two below––squirrel still in view.

The young man faces the child and, through puckered lips, blows the smoke from his lungs gently in their face. The soft grey clouds them and swirls upwards, fading into midnight. They cough and the man simply tells them, “Go home.”

There’s a flash of silver as the child lunges, and the crow jumps, wings extended in anticipation of flight. The man’s cigarette falls to the ground, still illuminating, and he doubles over. The prompt movement jerks the hood off the child’s head and releases long, dark hair and soft features. She wretches a knife from the man’s abdomen and backs away from him as he slides down the wall, clutching his reddening stomach. He pushes himself further away from the girl and starts to yell.

The girl doesn’t check the man for cigarettes, or even take the half-smoked butt from the ground. The crow stretches its neck at the tinging sounds of metal clattering to cement––she drops the knife and turns on her heel, dashing out of the alleyway and abandoning the man on the ground.

“Help!” the man yells. “Fuck…help me!”

He reaches into his pocket, sputtering and failing to catch his breath, and soon his face is lit by the backlight of his phone. But it isn’t that bright, isn’t that pretty, not like the knife. Even with blood on the blade, it still glimmers and reflects the moon. And so the crow dives down, gliding to a halt opposite the yelling man. He doesn’t notice the crow hopping along the ground, much like he hadn’t noticed the child, and the child hadn’t noticed the squirrel. With its long beak, the bird picks up the knife by the handle––rounded and easier to grab than the blade––and flies off just as the man places the screen to his ear and continues to beg, “Help me. I need help.”

A few blocks away rests the old architecture of a university building. It has many windows, scaffoldings, and nooks that birds clamour to. Several rotund pigeons dodge the crow as it nears, flying to a lower section of the building. The crow lands on the windowsill of a boarded window, broken in the fall by drunk students living in residence and yet to be properly repaired. Against the corner is a nest, packed with twigs, leaves, grass, pencils, pens, lighters, and other bits and bobs claimed from around the campus.

The crow drops its new possession amid the mess and nuzzles it into place with the curve of its beak. The night doesn’t seem as dark now with the bright reflection off the metal. It grips the rim of the nest with its dark feet and looks onto the rolling cars and straggler pedestrians at ground-level. It calls out to the night, throat bobbing with each syllable.

“Help,” the crow mimics happily, enjoying the sound. “Help me.”