Tempted

and crap from around it as possible. His feathers made what she was doing super weird. There was chest and skin under them, but it was just so dang odd! He had
feathers
, and under them she found downy little black puffs that felt soft as cotton candy from the state fair.
    She glanced at his face. He’d laid his head back down on the towel pillow. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he was breathing in short little pants.
    “Sorry, I know this hurts,” she said. His only response was a grunt which, ironically, made him seem more guy-like. Seriously—the grunt was well known to be a major guy communication method. “Okay, I think it’s ready for the moss.” She spoke more to soothe her own nerves than his. Tearing off a section of the moss, she carefully packed it into the wound. “It doesn’t seem as bad now that it’s not bleeding so much.” She kept chattering, even though he barely responded to her. “Here, gotta move you a little.” Stevie Rae rolled him further on his stomach so she could get to the rest of the wound. He pressed his face into the towel and stifled another moan. Stevie Rae spoke quickly, hating that agonized sound. “The hole where it came out of your back is bigger, but it’s not as dirty, so I won’t have as much cleaning to do back here.” It took a larger chunk of moss to cover the exit wound, but she got it done quickly.
    Then she shifted her attention to his wings. The wing on his left side was tucked tightly against his back. It didn’t look like it had been injured at all. But his right wing was another story. It was totally messed up—shattered and bloody and hanging lifelessly down his side.
    “Well, I guess it’s time to admit I’m totally out of my comfort zone back here. I mean, the bullet wound was nasty, but at least I knew what to do about it—kind of. Your wing is something else. I have no clue what to do to help it.”
    “Bind it to me. Use the cloth strips.” His voice was gravelly. He didn’t look at her and his eyes were still tightly closed.
    “Are you sure? Maybe I should just leave it alone.”
    “Less pain—if it’s bound,” he said haltingly.
    “Well, shit. Okay.” Stevie Rae got to work tearing another towelinto long strips, and then knotting them together. “All right. I’m gonna arrange your wing on your back kinda in the same position your other wing’s in. Is that right?”
    He nodded once.
    She held her breath and picked up his wing. He jerked and gasped. She dropped it and jumped back.
    “Shit! I’m sorry! Crap!”
    His eyes slitted and he looked up at her. Between panting gasps he said, “Just. Do. It.”
    She gritted her teeth, leaned forward and, blocking out his muffled moans of pain, rearranged the shattered wing into a position that vaguely resembled the unwounded wing. Then, with barely a pause for breath, she said, “You’re gonna have to hold yourself up a little so I can get this tied around you.”
    Stevie Rae felt his body tense and then he heaved himself up, leaning mostly on his left arm, so that he was in a tilted-over, half-sitting-up position—and his torso was far enough off the floor of the shed for her to quickly wrap the towel strips around him and secure the wing.
    “Okay, got it.”
    He collapsed. His entire body was trembling.
    “I’m wrappin’ your ankle now. I think it’s broken, too.”
    He nodded once.
    She tore more towel strips and then securely wrapped up his surprisingly human-looking ankle, just like she remembered her volleyball coach wrapping up one of her teammates’ weak ankles back when she was in high school at Henrietta High, home of the Fighting Hens.
    Fighting Hens?
Okay, her hometown’s mascot had always been silly, but at that moment it struck Stevie Rae as super-funny, and she had to bite her lip to keep a hysterical giggle from bubbling out of it. Thankfully she got herself under control in just a couple breaths, and managed to ask him, “Are you hurt bad anywhere else?”
    He shook his head in a short, jerky motion.
    “Okay, then I’m gonna stop messin’ with you, ’cause I think I got the worst of it tended.” When he nodded once in agreement, she saton the floor beside him, wiping her shaking hands on one of the leftover towels. Then she just sat there, looking at him and wondering what the heck she was going to do next. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said aloud, “I hope I never have to tie up another broken wing in my whole dang life.”
    His eyes opened,