It was a grey catbird, Tom knew, now that he could look at it. A memory of one was stuck in his head: one had flown into his house before, years back, causing a ruckus-- knocking into bookshelves, flying over their heads, wings flapping wildly, but not nearly as fiercely as this one. Their cat had eaten it.
That wasn't going to happen this time.
The rain was quiet in its thunder outside, and it thrummed through the floor, shaking everything, moving through Tom's chest. Tom took a quick breath and reached out to the bird, fast so it couldn't fly away. And then, there it was, gingerly cupped and contained in his hands. He could feel its heat in his palms. Its breaths, its heartbeat. Its whole life, right there.
He wouldn't let it be killed.
And Tom realized he was in the same place-he couldn't let himself be killed.
He couldn't let himself die inside just for everyone else's half-happiness.
Tom had his chance.