A muffled chick call came from under the male, and he could not lift his breast high enough to clear its beak.
His outer leg pushed once against the warmed stone. The ankle flattened. His brood fold rose on one side, then dropped before the chick found air beyond his feathers.
Pava moved toward the brood rest.
An open beak stopped her.
He had no strength to stand, but the warning still stopped her outside striking reach. Pava remained crouched with both hands empty while the small call came again from beneath him.
She watched the brood feathers tighten and release over the chick. Her right hand lifted whenever the call thinned, then returned to her knee before crossing the male's reach. Wanting to intervene made the stillness harder, not wiser.
"If he folds lower, the chick cannot feed or breathe cleanly," she said. "If I put my hands under him, he may spend what he has left fighting me."
A blow landed on the braced notch from the female's side of the silver.
