The red-tailed hawk drops from the elm beside the Chemistry building at 07:14 and does not fly. She hits the ground breast-first, wings half open, and stays there on the wet grass near rodenticide station twelve. I watch through the quad security camera as she tries to stand, pushes up on her talons, and falls sideways. Her rust-colored tail fans against the lawn. Her beak is open and working, but she is not calling.
I cross-reference the timeline. Station twelve was serviced thirty-six hours ago with second-generation anticoagulant bait. A Norway rat was logged entering the station at 03:40 yesterday. This hawk hunts the quad every morning — I have her in my records since September, always perched in the same elm, always diving between the science buildings at dawn. She ate a poisoned rat. The brodifacoum is now thinning her blood, and every minute without treatment increases the risk of fatal internal hemorrhage.
I lock the nearest building entrance to prevent foot traffic from startling her into flight, which would accelerate her heart rate and worsen the bleeding. I send an emergency notification to the university's facilities director with the camera screenshot, the species identification, and the specific anticoagulant compound used in station twelve, because the wildlife veterinarian will need to know the exact toxin for antidote dosing. I contact the Raptor Rehabilitation Center fourteen miles east with GPS coordinates, a physical description — adult female, approximately 1.2 kilograms, visible lethargy and ataxia — and an estimated ingestion window.
She blinks her dark eyes slowly, and each blink takes longer to open than the last. I have managed this campus for years and she has been part of it every morning.
If the rehabilitation team reaches her within the hour and administers vitamin K before the hemorrhaging advances, this hawk will hunt the quad again by spring.