Luke Greenwood   •   2017

Seattle’s hottest week of the summer and I’m volunteering at the Rock-It Summer Camp, which means I spend 6 hours a day indoors with no air conditioning, guarding the volume knobs from 10-year-old “rockers” who love beating me with drumsticks.

It’s the end of a long day, and I need a drink. I drive to McDonald’s for my vice: a mocha frappé with extra whip and chocolate drizzle. I take a well-earned swig and start making my way out. Just as I reach the exit, the door swings open. A pale Caucasian man about a foot taller than me freezes in the doorway. He has Einstein-like hair, and thin-bordered glasses pushed up close to his eyes. He looks horrified. We make eye contact for a few seconds before I realize another pair of eyes is staring back at me. Wrapped in a white plastic grocery bag nestled in the man’s arms is a live crow. “It’s not what it looks like!” the man exclaims. The crow’s tongue is limp and dangles from the side of its mouth. I look back up at the man as he attempts to explain himself. “I just saved this guy from gettin’ torn to pieces by some ravens, man! He needs water!”

I start running around, gathering supplies. Using a straw as a syringe, we try to get the crow to drink. We give it water, then whipped cream. “Blood sugar is important, ya know!” my new friend tells me. But it’s not working, and by this point, everyone is staring. We look at the diluted cream dripping down the crow’s face and know that we’re running out of time. “I have stuff at my house to patch this guy up. I hate to ask this, but…can you give me a ride?” I consider his request, seeing the news story play out in my mind: “Seventeen-year-old Luke Greenwood was found murdered today in Bellevue. Witnesses say the victim was last seen getting into the car with a strange man holding what appeared to be a dead crow. Stay tuned for more updates.” My parents are crying in the background. I’d get a 60 Minutes special, maybe a CSI episode somewhere down the line.

Being the responsible, sensible, and reasoned kid I am, I jump at the opportunity. “Of course! Let’s go!” We run through the parking lot frantically, crow in hand, racing to reach our destination before our wounded warrior’s heart gives way to silence. As I jump into the car, Einstein looks into my eyes and extends his hand. “Sorry I don’t think I ever got your name…” “Luke. Luke Greenwood,” I reply, firmly. We shake hands, and in that moment our bond is solidified. We are men on a mission. We are ready for battle. It’s almost patriotic.

I start the car, check for pedestrians (I am a responsible, sensible, and reasoned kid after all) and we take off. Every once in a red light I peer down to check on our patient. I see his tongue still hanging, eyes still fixed intently on mine, heart still beating. Einstein ignores my Grand Prix driving skills and continues to talk. I learn more about birds in that short drive than I’ve learned my entire life.

We finally reach the driveway, and our crow must be checked-in to the infirmary. Einstein turns to me. “Ya know Luke, there’s not many people out there like us man. We saved a life today.” I watch a drop of blood-tinged whipped cream drip from the bag. He gives me one final smile and disappears inside. I drive away, exuberant, feeling like a downright hero.

Sometimes, I think back on Einstein. I imagine him with the crow on his shoulder, tending to other newly admitted wounded souls, and smile.