“Hey Henrietta, I’ve been sitting on this egg forever. When do you think that weird human is going to come in and get this lump out of my perch? I’m getting uncomfortable.”
“Get up and move, Mabel. Stop being a nest ornament!”
“That was mean, and who are you to talk? You’re not free-range yourself. You’re barely moving range!”
Henrietta fluffed her feathers indignantly. “Excuse you. I paced yesterday.”
“You took three steps and fell asleep.”
“It was a power nap.”
Mabel shifted, winced, and sighed. “Still. I don’t like the way the human looks at us lately.”
Henrietta tilted her head, one eye swiveling toward the coop door while the other watched Mabel. “Which way? The squinty way or the measuring way?”
“The measuring way.”
Henrietta went very still. “Oh. That’s bad.”
From the far corner of the coop, Gladys the Rhode Island Red leaned in, lowering her voice like the walls had ears. “I heard the human muttering numbers yesterday.”
“What kind of numbers?” Mabel asked.
“Fractions.”
The coop fell silent.
Henrietta whispered, “Fractions are never about eggs.”
Mabel swallowed. “Do you think… do you think we look… seasoned?”
“You don’t look seasoned, Mabel. You look fattened up.”
Gladys nodded gravely. “I saw the human holding a cookbook.”
“A cookbook?” Mabel squeaked.
“It had pictures.”
“Pictures of what?” Mabel demanded.
Gladys leaned closer. “Us. But… featherless and crispy.”
Henrietta gasped. “I knew it. First, he gives us extra corn. Then the gentle voice. Then the lingering stares.”
“And the compliments,” Mabel added. “Nobody tells me I’m ‘plump in a nice way’ without an agenda.”
Mabel squinted toward the coop door. “Why is he eyeing us hungrily?”
The coop door creaked open slowly, and every chicken froze.
The human stepped inside, smiling, holding a basket.
Mabel clutched her egg protectively. “If he thinks I’m giving this up after all this sitting, he’s got another think coming.”
The human bent down and reached under her.
Mabel tensed as his warm hand lifted her up gently.
He pulled the egg free, and Mabel sank back down into her nest.
“He always gets my hopes up when he reaches under me for the egg,” Mabel muttered, “then leaves me unsatisfied. He’s nearly as bad as that cocky rooster, Captain Crows-a-lot. Always struttin’ and braggin’ and letting me down.”
As the farmer continued down the row, each hen was gently lifted and their egg collected.
“Oh,” Henrietta said. “That was… anticlimactic.”
“Gladys whispered, “I'd better start laying more eggs, because he gives me that hungry look more often now.”
The human turned, whistling cheerfully, and left the coop.
The door closed, and silence returned.
Mabel stood slowly, stretching every stiff feather. “Well. That was a relief.”
Gladys frowned, watching the door. “Have you ever wondered why the human smells like gravy?”
Henrietta narrowed her eyes. “Yes. It’s a little disturbing.”
Mabel sniffed the air. “I don’t like that question.”
From behind the feed bin, a younger chicken piped up, “I wonder if he tastes like chicken.”
Henrietta spun around. “You don’t even know what chicken tastes like.”
“Yes, I do,” the younger chicken said confidently. “We taste like chicken.”
The entire coop groaned.
“Oh, for the love of corn,” Henrietta muttered.
Mabel sighed. “Great. Not only are we livestock, but we’re also surrounded by idiots.”
The chickens all turned back toward the door.
“…Still,” Gladys said thoughtfully, “if he’s going to smell like gravy, the least he could do is bring biscuits.”
Henrietta said, “I once heard the human say that you are what you eat.”
Gladys scoffed and said, “If that’s the case, then we don’t taste like chicken, we taste like corn.”
Mabel replied, “Ummm... That would mean the human tastes like chicken!”
The young chicken behind the feed bin said, “Well then, I guess he must be delicious!”