Redhawk Caldera Michael Bolton, we're really gonna need you to focus up

According to Ye Olde Guidebook, Killdeer's ears were now perky as [insert non-innuendo simile here]. And he, too, with them. He was a jovial child, growing like a weed—in all directions. Taller, broader. . .okay, let's face it, fatter.

Fat and happy was young Killdeer Redhawk. Except not today.

Normally, he'd go outside and stay there, or at least just outside the den, playing with sticks and chewing on hapless insects. Today, though, he'd remained inside, sprawled out in the shade, looking balefully out at the sun-drenched ground.

He'd tried to go out, earlier. It was too hot. Like it didn't even get this hot next to Mom's belly, nestled in close, when he was too curious to sleep.

Even the birds and bees seemed to know it; he saw less of them than usual today, and when he did, they fluttered around slower, as if they were worn out, too.

His ribs rose and fell in an enormous sigh, escaping through his muzzle in a huff that stirred the dust.