You've seen this feather.

Everyone has.

Nobody ever asked whose it was.

This is the story of the bird it came from.

There was a city where the money went up.

And never came back down. Everyone said that was just how it worked.

The crows didn't buy it.

One of them was Gerald.

He lived on the roof of the tallest tower. He watched the people inside count what they had. He watched the people outside count what they didn't.

Crows remember faces. He remembered all of them.

So he started taking.

A coin from a desk. A ring from a windowsill. Shiny things, the way crows do.

And every morning, the people below found them on their own windowsills.

Real crows do this.

Nobody told him to.

The towers noticed.

They sent security. Gerald left the way crows leave: all at once, straight up, and with no comment.

One feather came loose on the way out.

He didn't notice.

The feather fell for a long time.

Past the towers. Through the night. Into the morning.

It landed on a windowsill, where a gift used to be.

A kid picked it up.

The people painted it black on a neon wall.

Nobody knew the bird's name, so they named him after what he did: took from the rich, gave to the rest.

The mark grew into something very large.

Gerald was not told.

He never got a thank-you.

GERALDI'm not angry.

He has never been angry.

But crows remember.

And a crow can collect what he's owed.

So he walked onto the chain that carries his feather.

GERALDI don't check the chart.

GERALDI am the chart.

Feather up.