Mabel Owl had one mouse in the whole forest she loved, and she could not leave him on the ground. She kept him tucked under her wing, warm against her feathers. But an owl who cannot hunt cannot eat. Every night she faced the same problem. If she flew off to catch her supper, she had to set her mouse down somewhere. And down on the forest floor, foxes prowled. Snakes slid through the leaves. A small mouse alone would not last one hour. Tonight her stomach ached with hunger. She had not eaten in two days. She could feel her wings growing weak. Soon she would be too tired to fly at all, and then neither of them would survive. Mabel searched the trees. She needed a spot high enough that no fox could reach it. Near a wide clearing she found what she wanted. Someone had built a wooden perch there, a tall post with a sturdy crossbar near the top. The wood was worn smooth and scratched, but it stood firm when she pushed it with her talon. Nothing could climb it fast enough to catch a mouse waiting up there. But a bare perch was not safe by itself. Her mouse could roll off the edge in his sleep. A hawk could snatch him from above. Mabel needed a way to hold him steady while she hunted. She worked through the night. She gathered strips of soft bark and twisted them into a braided loop. She lined the inside with feathers pulled from her own chest, one by one, until the cradle was soft and warm. She tied the finished sling to the crossbar with a firm knot. When she set her mouse inside, the feathers curled around him. He fit perfectly, deep enough that he could not tumble out. "Stay here," Mabel whispered. She tested the sling with her beak. It held. She lifted off the perch. For the first time in two nights, both her wings were free. She climbed fast into the dark. Below her the sling swayed gently on the crossbar, her mouse hidden inside the feathers. She circled once to be sure. From above, he was almost invisible. Mabel hunted well. She caught two voles before the moon reached the treetops. She ate until her hunger faded and her wings felt strong again. Then she turned back toward the perch, ready to gather her mouse and find them a place to rest. She dropped down through the branches. The feather-lined sling still hung from the crossbar, swaying in the wind. But the cradle was empty. The soft feathers were pressed flat, as if something heavy had leaned inside. A single dark feather lay caught in the braided bark. It was not one of hers. Mabel's mouse was gone.