In 1960, fourteen-year-old Kya, still unable to read and living alone, fishes near her lagoon when she hears movement and crows alarming. She glimpses an older boy searching through the woods and hides, then locks her door, newly aware that trips to Jumpin’s expose her to being watched.

Returning at dawn to a favorite oak clearing, Kya finds a great blue heron eyebrow feather stuck upright in a mossy stump. Startled yet drawn in, she takes it home and centers it among her cherished feather collection, wondering why a boy would bring such a gift.

The next day, she discovers a long white tropicbird tail feather on the stump and delights in its rarity. That night she lights extra candles to paint it, continuing her practice of labeling specimens with chalk and watercolor drawings because she still cannot read or write.

For more than a week no feather appears, then a wild turkey tail feather arrives, reigniting the game. This triggers a memory from a year earlier: Kya watched a turkey flock kill a wounded hen to avoid attracting predators; she tried to save the bird but was too late and covered its eye with a leaf.

That same night, a group of boys surged from the woods, jeering and slapping her door before fleeing, leaving Kya frightened and shamed. Back in the present, the new feather assures her the quiet exchange continues, balancing her fear of exposure with the pull of connection.