Unusual Chickens for the Exceptional Poultry Farmer by Kelly Jones Page B

call. And even special chickens—or maybe especially special chickens—can’t be left on their own by the side of the road for an hour without any sort of box or anything.
    And then I felt that shadow again, and the chickens started to run, and I ran after them, flapping my arms and yelling to keep that hawk away.
    It didn’t seem strange to me at the time, what with everything going on, but the chickens knew where they were going. They ran up the driveway next door, around the corner, and into a barn that was open just a crack, and I ran after them, slamming the door behind me as soon as I counted seven chickens.
    It was dark in the barn, except for a little bit of light from the high dusty windows, but I didn’t care. I just breathed until my lungs caught up with my heart and everything calmed down.
    One of the Speckled Sussex went over to a pile of wood shavings in a corner, sat down, and started fluffing up her feathers. Then the others joined in, all fluffing and rolling around, looking like their bones had melted away, like jellyfish chickens, clouds of dust everywhere, clucking their contentment.
    I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck in a stranger’s barn with seven loose chickens that no one knew were mine, and a hawk-chicken outside.
    I stared at the barn wall for a while, and blinked and blinked, trying to pretend everything would be okay. Then I got out my cell phone and had a look. One bar, then nothing, then one bar again, just for a second. I tried calling my parents over and over, while the chickens rolled around in the dust. I was desperate for Mom or Dad to come pick us up, and also scared the call would go through and they’d answer. But it didn’t.
    Then came part of my day I’d rather not tell you about. I know I’m old enough to be responsible for my actions and not to lose it like a two-year-old, but I know that even my dad cried when he got laid off, and once in a while after that when he thought no one was looking. I know my mom can swear a blue streak in two languages when she thinks I’m somewhere else and things aren’t going so well, like when her computer died and the rent was due and even my cousin Javier (who’s really good at that stuff and works for UCLA’s computer labs now) couldn’t fix it. So let’s just say I’m not proud of how I acted, and I’m sure I wasted some time, but I really couldn’t think what else to do.
    Finally, I realized I was blinking at a sign on the wall: REDWOOD FARM SUPPLY, just over a wooden desk and a big filing cabinet.
    I took a deep breath and said, “Agnes, I’m really sorry about your chickens.” I don’t really know why I felt like I had to tell you. I didn’t like the way my voice was trembling, and I hated saying the words at all; it felt like admitting I had really screwed up. And even though I had, I didn’t want to go on about it. But it was like the words needed to get out, like if I didn’t let them out of my mouth, they were going to claw their way out of my chest like an alien or something. “I thought I could get them home safe, but I can’t, and now I don’t know what to do.” Then my eyes blurred for a while, and the pressure in my chest lifted just enough that I could swallow down the rest of the words and keep them to myself a little longer.
    When I looked up, the hens were clustered near the door, squawking to get out. “Hush,” I told them, a little desperately.
    But of course Henrietta didn’t listen. She’s getting really good at door latches.
    The chickens all ran out before I could stop them, and I ran after them, waving my arms and looking for the hawk. But I didn’t see it.
    Instead, I saw a house, and what looked like it was probably a vegetable garden before the weeds took over, and some fields that didn’t really have anything in them that I could tell, and the barn I’d just come out of. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Agnes, but your farm looks really run-down, like those paintings of