They had reached an agreement of sorts. Michael had agreed to bring fewer injured seagulls home, and Sally had agreed to keep good stocks of duct tape, just in case. They had not been able to agree on the dog.
When they’d been young, around forty years ago (or thirty if Sally was in the wrong mood or the right light), all marine birds had been fit as fiddles. Then the bearded man had bought the cliffs, and waved his hands beneath the moon, and nothing could fly inland without crashing down concussed.
It was, they agreed, very strange indeed.