Private 127 had a problem: he didn’t believe in his wings.

Elena stood up, wincing at her bad knee, and watched him become a small black cross against a wide blue sky. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

Private 127 blinked his red-rimmed eyes but didn’t move.

His enclosure was a long, canyon-like aviary carved into a mountainside reserve. Every morning, older condors launched themselves off the high ledges, their massive wings catching thermal currents with the ease of breathing. They soared over valleys, over rivers, over the tiny white dots that were villages far below.

“You know what your number means?” she said one cloudy Tuesday. “One hundred twenty-seven. That’s how many condors hatched in this reserve since I started. One hundred twenty-six of them learned to fly. And every single one of them fell first.”