the orange pickup. Ms. Griegson looked straight ahead, so I don’t think she saw us. But I couldn’t see what was in the back of the truck.
I squinted down the road. No sign of the hawk. Should I tell Chris about Ms. Griegson’s hawk-chicken?
But when I looked back at him, he was already pushing his bike in the opposite direction. I ran after him, my bike left in the dust. “Hey!”
He didn’t look at me. “Just keep going down the hill. There’s a split-rail fence at the bottom, where the trees are. Past them you’ll see the chicken coop in the field. I have to get home.”
I was pretty mad at him then, but what could I do? I thought he agreed they were my chickens, not Ms. Griegson’s. I thought he wanted to help me. But you can’t really make someone do the right thing, or help you when you need help. Just like you can’t make someone trust you, or be your friend.
So I walked back to my bike. By the time I pushed it up onto the road, he was out of sight, off around the curve in the road. Maybe he was just scared. I was pretty scared too.
I kept on riding, more slowly now, and I kept a sharp ear out for that orange pickup. But I didn’t hear anything, and I didn’t see any driveways before I got to the bottom of the hill and the fence Chris told me about. I pulled my bike behind a big bush and leaned it up against the fence, and I took a good look through the row of trees at the chicken coop.
It looked like a wood shack maybe thirty feet away, on the other side of the fence. I could see that the windows were covered in chicken wire. I couldn’t see any chickens around, and I was nervous about that. I hate to admit it, because I really have tried to study, but I couldn’t remember what a Speckled Sussex looks like. I think it’s because even though I’ve looked at a lot of pictures in a lot of chicken books, I haven’t really seen that many chickens myself, at least not to know what kind they are. So I decided since Chris had run away anyway, I might as well go have a look and make sure I could tell which ones were mine, just in case Ms. Griegson had been stealing other people’s chickens too. I really wasn’t going to have much luck explaining all this if I stole the wrong chickens.
Then I heard an engine start up. I ducked back behind the bush with my bike, and just in time, because the orange pickup came right back down the road. I had a bad feeling about that. But not the kind of bad feeling that meant I could just go home.
I was careful to have a good look around all the trees and high up in the sky before I slipped under the fence. But I could still feel my shoulders hunched almost up to my ears as I walked across the short grass toward the shed. What would those hawk claws feel like if it found me here?
But I made it to the shed, and ducked under the short eave. Ms. Griegson was pretty sure of herself; it wasn’t locked or anything. Then again, no one would believe me in a case of her word against mine.
Peering through the window, I could see three chickens I didn’t know in the shed, brown with white-and-black speckles, and then I held my breath. Four chickens I knew very well were there too. Ms. Griegson had stolen all of my chickens.
I stared and stared at them. I’d seen them all when I fed them earlier, before Chris came over, so she must have just brought them here. I felt so mad at her then, but also so useless. I was only gone for an hour or so, and she just drove right up and stole my chickens, and no one stopped her. What was I supposed to do now?
Then Henrietta noticed me at the window. She hopped down from her perch and clucked her way over to the floor below the window, clucking louder and louder. The other chickens hopped down too and hurried along behind.
I glanced around. I still couldn’t see anyone, but someone was going to notice all this racket pretty soon.
The door latch rattled. Henrietta didn’t know this kind, but that didn’t stop her from trying. It was
I squinted down the road. No sign of the hawk. Should I tell Chris about Ms. Griegson’s hawk-chicken?
But when I looked back at him, he was already pushing his bike in the opposite direction. I ran after him, my bike left in the dust. “Hey!”
He didn’t look at me. “Just keep going down the hill. There’s a split-rail fence at the bottom, where the trees are. Past them you’ll see the chicken coop in the field. I have to get home.”
I was pretty mad at him then, but what could I do? I thought he agreed they were my chickens, not Ms. Griegson’s. I thought he wanted to help me. But you can’t really make someone do the right thing, or help you when you need help. Just like you can’t make someone trust you, or be your friend.
So I walked back to my bike. By the time I pushed it up onto the road, he was out of sight, off around the curve in the road. Maybe he was just scared. I was pretty scared too.
I kept on riding, more slowly now, and I kept a sharp ear out for that orange pickup. But I didn’t hear anything, and I didn’t see any driveways before I got to the bottom of the hill and the fence Chris told me about. I pulled my bike behind a big bush and leaned it up against the fence, and I took a good look through the row of trees at the chicken coop.
It looked like a wood shack maybe thirty feet away, on the other side of the fence. I could see that the windows were covered in chicken wire. I couldn’t see any chickens around, and I was nervous about that. I hate to admit it, because I really have tried to study, but I couldn’t remember what a Speckled Sussex looks like. I think it’s because even though I’ve looked at a lot of pictures in a lot of chicken books, I haven’t really seen that many chickens myself, at least not to know what kind they are. So I decided since Chris had run away anyway, I might as well go have a look and make sure I could tell which ones were mine, just in case Ms. Griegson had been stealing other people’s chickens too. I really wasn’t going to have much luck explaining all this if I stole the wrong chickens.
Then I heard an engine start up. I ducked back behind the bush with my bike, and just in time, because the orange pickup came right back down the road. I had a bad feeling about that. But not the kind of bad feeling that meant I could just go home.
I was careful to have a good look around all the trees and high up in the sky before I slipped under the fence. But I could still feel my shoulders hunched almost up to my ears as I walked across the short grass toward the shed. What would those hawk claws feel like if it found me here?
But I made it to the shed, and ducked under the short eave. Ms. Griegson was pretty sure of herself; it wasn’t locked or anything. Then again, no one would believe me in a case of her word against mine.
Peering through the window, I could see three chickens I didn’t know in the shed, brown with white-and-black speckles, and then I held my breath. Four chickens I knew very well were there too. Ms. Griegson had stolen all of my chickens.
I stared and stared at them. I’d seen them all when I fed them earlier, before Chris came over, so she must have just brought them here. I felt so mad at her then, but also so useless. I was only gone for an hour or so, and she just drove right up and stole my chickens, and no one stopped her. What was I supposed to do now?
Then Henrietta noticed me at the window. She hopped down from her perch and clucked her way over to the floor below the window, clucking louder and louder. The other chickens hopped down too and hurried along behind.
I glanced around. I still couldn’t see anyone, but someone was going to notice all this racket pretty soon.
The door latch rattled. Henrietta didn’t know this kind, but that didn’t stop her from trying. It was
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