Ken Raptor's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

Ken's grant application came back on a Thursday morning with a single-page rejection letter. The committee cited insufficient partnerships with existing wildlife organizations. He read it twice, then set it on his desk next to his patient journal. Four hundred and nine birds weren't enough. His volunteer network of four people wasn't enough. He walked to the cabinet and pulled out his notebooks filled with hospital designs. All those hours from 2300 to 0200, sketching flight enclosures and intake stations that would never get built. His hands started to shake. He shoved the notebooks back and slammed the cabinet door hard enough to rattle the supply shelves. At 0600 hours, Ken forced himself through treatment rounds. His hands felt numb as he changed bandages and checked wing splints. A barred owl watched him from the recovery cage, eyes tracking his movements. Ken dropped a syringe twice before getting the antibiotic dose right. The certification application he'd filed three weeks ago didn't matter anymore. Without grant funding, the regional emergency center designation meant nothing. He'd still be working in this cramped room with secondhand cages while birds died waiting for proper care. He scrubbed his hands at the sink until the skin turned red and raw. The water ran pink down the drain. By 1100 hours, Ken drove out to a canvas medical tent someone had set up in a clearing. The structure held supply stations and practice dummies—a training setup for emergency response drills. He'd heard about it from one of his volunteers and thought it might offer ideas for his hospital. But standing inside the tent now, looking at the organized stations and proper equipment, only made his chest tighten. This was what real preparation looked like. His clinic had four mismatched cages and a desk covered in rejection letters. He walked past a wooden weathervane near the tent that cast long shadows across the ground. Beyond it, a charred tree stump showed green shoots pushing through blackened wood. New growth from dead timber. Ken stared at it for a full minute, then turned back to his truck. He sat in the driver's seat and pulled out his patient journal. Entry four hundred and nine stared back at him—the screech owl from yesterday. Ken flipped through the pages, reading injury notes and treatment outcomes he'd logged over months of work. Martinez had bled out in twenty-three minutes because the system failed. Ken had promised himself his birds wouldn't wait like that. But without funding or partnerships, he was just one person with notebooks full of plans that would never get built. He closed the journal and set it on the passenger seat. The 1400 treatment round was in three hours. The birds in his clinic needed him whether the grant committees believed in his work or not. Ken started the engine and headed back.