They're both in bad shape. Tim is down one wing, and the only company he has is moving awkwardly through the carpet of dead leaves. One of his legs is all but useless. Between them, they might make one full, functional avian being.

The bag ends up on the ground. Tim disregards it.

"We're getting out of here. Come on." He has to move at an awkward angle, propping the other bird up and trying to keep the pressure off his bad wing all at the same time. It's not idea. Their progress is slow and staggering.

He doesn't care.

The pressure behind his eyes is unbearable.

"Just - keep moving. Come on."