A wounded bird made of questions and uncertainty, cradled in hands that are themselves dissolving into the same substance as the bird—both the protector and protected are becoming indistinguishable, both fragile, both maybe-real. The bird's heart beats visibly through its translucent chest, or perhaps it's a metronome, or perhaps it's both. The hands shake with the effort of holding gently enough not to crush it but firmly enough to keep it from falling through the gaps between fingers. Behind them, a vast audience of eyes watches, waiting to see if the bird will fly or shatter or reveal itself as an elaborate illusion. The protector's face shows not fear of the audience but fear FOR the bird, desperate not to let it know it might not be real, terrified that their protection might be the only thing keeping it in existence.