Page 17 of From Nowhere

“Oh, Kentucky and Slim are two of my chickens.” He named his chickens after chicken restaurants. That’s a little messed up but kind of funny.

“Sorry, I haven’t. I take it they’re missing?”

He scratches his throat. “Yeah. But they must be close by. They don’t wander far from the roost. I need to find them before it gets dark. Ya never know what might get a hold of one of ’em. You don’t by any chance have a few extra minutes to help me look, do ya?”

“Actually, I’m in the middle of a—”

“We’d love to help,” Ozzy says, stepping next to me and opening the door a little wider. “I’m Ozzy.”

“A new roommate?” Reagan asks.

“A friend.” Ozzy shoves his feet into his black boots and ties them.

“I’m Reagan, and I’d really appreciate all the help I can get. Here.” He reaches into the pocket of his baggy jeans and holds out his fist. “Take a little crumble with you in case you find ’em.”

Ozzy opens his hand, accepting the chicken feed, while I slip on my white sneakers and step onto the porch.

“Here ya go, Maren.” Reagan punches his fist in my direction. I take the rest of the crumble. “Kentucky is a buff gold-and-orange mix, and Slim is chestnut. If you see one, hold out the feed to attract her. When she’s about done pecking the treat from your hand, pick her up by holding both wings snug to her body so she doesn’t flap, and then hug her close to you. Feel free to pet her. They love it when you pet ’em.”

“Where should we start looking?” Ozzy asks with a straight face while I curl my lips together to keep from laughing.

This isn’t happening.

“You go that way; I’ll head in the opposite direction,” Reagan says. “You might have to take a peek in some backyards. I wouldn’t go more than a few houses down. Like I said, they can’t be too far away.”

“Got it.” Ozzy returns a resolute nod.

When Reagan heads down the driveway, Ozzy winks. “I was hoping we’d get to look for chickens tonight.”

I snort. “Stop. I’m so sorry. You didn’t have to offer—”

“I did. This is my first chicken hunt. How could I say no?”

We turn right at the end of the driveway.

“Speaking of hunting, what if we find them dead?” I ask. “Several neighbors have hunting dogs. And nobody cares for Reagan’s rooster, which wakes us up so early. Someone might kill one of the hens just to send a message.”

“Let’s be positive.” He playfully nudges my arm.

I don’t look at him, but I smile.

We scour the block, sneaking between houses to peek into neighbors’ backyards. Just when we’re about to give up because the sun has set and there’s minimal illumination from the streetlights, I spy something out of the corner of my eye.

“There!” I point.

“Good job,” Ozzy whispers, stealthily approaching the two hens pecking in the grass.

They start to bolt in the opposite direction, but Ozzy makes a funny clicking sound and squats with his hand open, spilling feed onto the ground. Both chickens strut toward him, so I slowly crouch down and open my hand to them.

The buff one pecks at the feed, and I jump with a giggle as it tickles my hand.

Ozzy’s grin swells to the most handsome proportions. It feels tangible.

“The food’s almost gone. We’d better pick them up,” I say.

“You’re right.” Ozzy doesn’t hesitate. He’s the original chicken wrangler—hands pressed to Slim’s wings while tucking her close to him.

“Eek!” I squeal when I don’t get Kentucky’s wings pressed to her body the first time, and they flap in my face.

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