What Are We But Our Stories?

Unfortunately, Every Time Someone Said “debriefing,” The Entire Flock Had One Image: Someone’s Tighty-whities Disappearing In A Flash. We Were Smothering Our Giggles, But It Was Getting Harder. Coupled With The Whole “naval This, And Naval That,” With Its Undeniable Belly-button Connotations, We Were Essentially Turning Into A Sugar-jacked, Sleep-deprived Flock Of Incoherent, Silly, Recombinant-dna Goofballs. This Was Not Going To End Well.

Fang Looked At The Newest Bird Kid. Dylan Was An Inch Or Two Taller Than He Was, And Somewhat Heavier Built, Though He Still Had The Long, Lean Look Of A Human-avian Hybrid-you Couldn't Make Bricks Fly.

Later," Fang Said To Ella And Dr. Martinez In That Gushy, Hyperemotional, Overdramatic Way He Has.

Max, You're The Last Of The Hybrids Who Still Has...a Soul.' ... 'she Doesn't Have Soul,' Gazzy Scoffed. 'have You Ever Seen Her Dance?

And Max, I've Put Some Scraps In A Bowl For Your Dog," Mom Said. "it's On The Floor, By The Back Door." The Flock And I Went Still. Uh-oh, I Thought. Total Stomped Up To Me, His Glare Accusing. "a Bowl On The Floor!" He Seethed. "why Don't You Just Chain Me To A Stake In The Yard And Throw Me A Bone!