In Klinton, there is a saying: “A man must pass his rite of passage.”

For most, it meant killing a bird. A clean shot. A puff of feathers in the air, blood in the leaves. You came back with something dead, and everyone called you a man.

The birds weren’t targets to Levi. They were companions, always watching from their cages, clinging to the thin branches Joel called perches. Cages had been a constant in his life, brought by his father and kept alive by his uncle Joel after the old man died.

“You can’t live halfway,” Joel said that morning, pushing the rifle into Levy’s hands. “Time to prove you’re not soft.”

And then Joel disappeared into the trees, machete in hand, leaving Levy alone at the edge of the jungle clearing with nothing but the gun, the cages, and the heat.

The birds shuffled. Silent.

One shot. One bird. That was the rite.

Levy sat on a mossy log, staring at the rifle lying across his lap. His fingers curled around the stock like it might burn him.

Everything around him buzzed and breathed. The leaves whispered. The branches groaned. The cages hung from crooked poles.

He looked toward the oldest cage tied with rusted wire. Molly was inside. A dove, pale grey and too still. She had a bent beak and soft eyes. Her silence hurt more than any accusation.

Levy stood.

He lifted the rifle. The air was thick. He could feel the sweat run down his back, carving lines through dirt.

Molly didn’t move.

He aimed.

But his arms began to tremble. Something loosened in his chest. And then the memory returned.

The old porch back home. His father’s voice behind him, saying, “Don’t flinch,” while the barrel pressed against his small hands.

The gun dropped, sinking slightly into the wet soil.

Levy fell to his knees. The birds fluttered.

He buried his face in his hands and wept. His body shook. Not a boy’s cry, but something older. Feral. It came from a place his voice didn’t know. A sound of something caged for too long.

He wept until he couldn’t breathe.

The jungle pressed in. Hot and loud. But the birds stayed still.

When the sobs were gone, he rose and wiped his face with the back of his hand. It came away wet, not just with tears but with blood from his bitten lip. The metallic taste grounded him.

He went to each cage.

One by one, he opened them.

No grand ceremony. Just a thumb on a latch, a door swung wide.

Then one finch darted out. Then a sparrow. Then the crow.

Molly was the last. She stepped to the edge and looked at him. Her eyes did not blink.

She flew.

And the jungle swallowed her.

Levy turned to the gun.

He didn’t lift it. This time, it trembled. He gripped it too hard. The edge of the trigger guard sliced into his palm. He didn’t notice at first. Then he saw the blood dripping onto the barrel, ran down the stock. Onto the soil.

He let the rifle fall.

Then he walked to the stream. Took off his shirt. Washed his face. Sat.

When Joel returned at sundown, he stepped into the clearing and saw the empty cages, the rifle, the shadow it cast like a spine across the soil.

He called for Levy once.

Only the trees answered.