For the next 84 days, the fledgling lived on me. We became inseparable. He would fly alongside me, or cling to me as I went from room to room in the house, while we walked the grasslands or when I drove. He’d rest in my hand. As he learned to fly, he’d make short flights from my hand, to my shoulder, to my head, then abseil down my waist-length hair to rest again. He investigated my clothes, belt and shoelaces. I ate and went to the toilet one-handed, as he took daily naps in my cupped palm. At dusk, I would stroke and chirp to him until his eyes drooped and his head lolled to one side. Then I’d lower him into his tea towel nest and leave him until dawn.

Each day, he made little “nests” in my hair, on the groove of my collarbone, which filled me with awe. He’d tuck himself under a curtain of hair and gather individual strands with his beak, sculpting them into a round of woven locks, resembling a small nest, then settling inside. He would allow it to unravel when he was done and start again the next day.

I learned his different calls; he purred when he was content, sounded a high-pitched alarm when he was afraid. I’d forage for his food and clean up his litter, which was exhausting. I never named him because he didn’t belong to me – I had to remind myself that he needed to return to the wild.