Eager Eagle limped along the dirt path with one wing held tight against his ribs. He had promised to meet the vet before noon, and being on time mattered to him more than the pain. It always did. He had never missed an appointment in his life, and he did not plan to start today, even with a torn wing and no way to fly. The trouble was the sun. He squinted up at it and tried to guess the hour. Halfway up the sky, maybe. Or past halfway. He could not tell. Without flight, without the wind on his feathers, his sense of time had gone soft. He had already asked a passing rabbit and gotten a shrug. He walked faster and felt the wing throb harder for it. By the time the clinic came into view, he was almost running. The building sat low and neat, pale green boards, flower boxes at the windows, a blue paw print on the sign above the door. He climbed the step and pushed inside. The woman behind the counter looked up from a clipboard. Brown hair pulled into a knot. Blue scrubs, pink shirt underneath. She set the pen down and studied his wing before she studied his face. "You're bleeding on my floor," Valerie said. "Am I late?" he asked. She blinked. "You're injured." "I said noon. Is it past noon?" Valerie pointed at the clock on the wall behind him. He turned. The hands read eleven forty-two. "Sit," she said. He sat. She pulled a tray closer and began cleaning the wing with quick, careful hands. He watched the clock instead of the wound. The second hand moved in steady clicks. He had never owned one. He had always used the sun, and the sun had always been enough, because he had always been in the air. "You walked the whole way guessing," Valerie said. It was not a question. "Yes." "How often are you late?" "Never." She glanced at him. "Grounded eagle who has never been late. That won't hold." He opened his beak to argue and closed it. She was right. Without wings, the sky was just a ceiling. He could not read it anymore. Valerie wrapped the wing in white cloth, taped it, and stepped back. "Four weeks before you fly. Maybe five." Four weeks. He thought of every appointment in that stretch. The trail meeting. The hatchling lessons. The council visit. All of them on foot. All of them guessed at. She reached under the counter and pulled out a small tin box. Inside was a pocket watch on a worn leather cord. She placed it in his good claw. "Belonged to a patient. He doesn't need it now. Wind it every morning." He closed his claw around the watch. It was warm from her hand and heavier than he expected. "Thank you," he said. "Don't be late," she said. "And don't tear the stitches." He stepped back into the sun with the watch ticking against his chest.

Eager Eagle stood outside the clinic and opened the watch. The cover clicked back on its hinge. He stared at the face. Two thin hands crossed near the top. He turned the watch one way, then the other. The numbers stayed the same, but the hands looked the same too. One was a little longer. He thought. Maybe. His next appointment was the trail meeting at one o'clock, and he did not know if he had an hour or five minutes. He had walked three steps back down the path before he stopped. He had told Valerie he understood. He had not. That was a lie by silence, and a lie was worse than being late. He turned around and climbed the step again. The bell over the door rang. Valerie looked up from her clipboard. Her pen paused. "Stitches?" she said. "Fine." "Then what." He held out the watch on his good claw. "I can't read it." She set the clipboard down. She did not sigh. She wiped her hands on her scrubs and came around the counter. She pulled a stool over and sat across from him, close enough that he could see a smudge of iodine on her sleeve. "Show me what you see," she said. "Two hands. One longer. They point at numbers. I don't know which one matters." "Short one is the hour. Long one is the minute." She tapped the glass with a fingernail. "Short points at the number. Long counts around the edge. Each number is five minutes for the long hand." He stared. His head hurt. Valerie reached under the counter and came back with a scrap of paper and a pencil. She drew a circle. She drew the numbers. Then she drew four little clocks beside it. "Your appointments this week." She pointed at the first drawing. "Trail meeting. One o'clock. Short hand on the one, long hand straight up on the twelve." She pointed at the next. "Hatchling lesson. Nine. Short on nine, long on twelve." The next. "Council. Three thirty. Short between three and four, long on the six." The last. "Feeding at noon. Both hands straight up." She pushed the paper across. "Don't read the watch. Match the picture. When the hands look like the drawing, go." He looked at the paper. He looked at the watch. He held them side by side. The short hand sat between the twelve and the one. The long hand pointed near the ten. He compared it to the first drawing. Not yet. Not close. "Wait on the bench outside," Valerie said. "When it matches the one o'clock picture, leave. You'll make it." He folded the paper carefully and tucked it beside the watch. His face felt hot. He had accepted help, and it had not killed him. "Thank you," he said. "Go sit," she said, and picked up her clipboard.

Eager Eagle sat on the bench outside the clinic and watched the watch until the hands matched the drawing. The short hand touched the twelve. The long hand pointed at the nine. Close enough to leave. He stood. His torn wing pulled under the sling. The trail meeting was on the far side of town, and he had always crossed that distance from the sky. On the ground he had never gone farther than the market. He took two steps down the path and stopped. The road forked. One branch bent left between houses. The other climbed toward the tree line. He did not know which one led to the meeting spot. From above he had always found it by the bend of the river and the shadow of the ridge. Down here the houses hid the river. The ridge was gone behind roofs. He went back inside. The bell rang. Valerie looked up. "I don't know the way on foot," he said. "I have always flown." She set the clipboard down again. She opened a drawer under the counter and dug past tape and gauze. She lifted out a brass compass on a loop of cord. The glass was scratched. The needle swung and settled. "A logger left this," she said. She placed it in his good claw. "Red points north. Your trail meeting is south of here, past the creek. Keep the red needle behind you and walk toward the sun. When you hit the creek, follow it left until you see the trail marker." He turned the compass. The needle swung, then settled again. He understood the arrow better than the watch. Arrows he knew. "South," he said. "South," she said. "Go." He walked. The compass hung from his claw. Every few steps he stopped and let the needle settle and turned his body until the red end sat behind his shoulder. The dirt road became a packed earth trail that wound between trees. Leaves lay scattered across it. Roots crossed the path. He tripped once and caught himself on his good wing and kept moving. The creek appeared where she had said. He turned left along it. His feet hurt. He did not stop. He heard voices ahead before he saw the clearing, low and steady, someone reading names from a list. He stepped out of the trees. A cluster of animals stood around a post marked with red paint. Heads turned. He pulled the watch from his pocket and matched it to the drawing in his head. Short hand on the one. Long hand on the twelve. He had arrived exactly at the hour. He took his place at the edge of the group. Someone nodded at him and kept reading. He held the compass tight in his claw. He had crossed the town on foot, and he was on time. Then he heard his own name on the list, and the reader looked up and asked him to give the trail report he had not prepared.