Page 60 of Homewrecker

The chickens weigh, what, maybe five to ten pounds? I can't believe I'm even considering this, but I could pick them up one by one and place them in the coop. Close up, their feathers aren't as nasty as I'd imagined. Some of them are quite beautifully patterned. I assess the situation and decide that, yes, this is the only remaining course of action, if I can psych myself up to do it.

I select one of the birds who is already close to the coop; it's the white one I nearly captured earlier. I remember Harmony saying she was a nice chicken, one of her favorites. I approach slowly from behind, like a creepy chicken stalker. Then I gently bend at the knees, stick out my arms like a forklift and scoop her into my arms. She doesn't make a sound or struggle very much. Trying not to think about the feel of the feathers against my skin, I project her into the coop and swing shut the door. Success! I only have to do that seventeen more times...

I find my next chicken and attempt the same maneuver. Bend, scoop, lift. Unfortunately, this bird is more resistant to my plan. When I get my arms around her, she squawks and flaps her wings wildly. Certain I'm going to be murdered by her wings of death, I release her to the ground and jump away. Then I hop up and down, screeching like I've been attacked by a knife-wielding killer. For a good minute, I jump around the pen, screaming to no one in particular about feathers and flapping and how I really hate chickens.

When I slow down, I realize that I do have a scratch on my arm where her talons ripped into me. I double over, breathing hard. It’s time to face facts, these birds have got me on the ropes.

"What are you doing to that poor chicken?"

I turn, wild-eyed, to see Seth and Mutt peering into the chicken run. He's got an armload of lumber and an amused smile on his face. When he registers my panic, his expression turns serious.

"You need some help?"

"Dad said I have to get all these chickens into the house thing." I flail one of my useless arms at the chicken condo. "But they're not responding to food bribes so I tried picking them up—"

I cut myself off mid-sentence because there's a hiccup in my throat and if I let it out, I'm going to start sobbing. I had no idea how upset I was about the disobedience of these damn chickens until Seth arrived. Or maybe it's just the general tenor of the day that's got me so emotional. Phone calls from my mother have a history of roiling me. She has the opposite effect of my father. He's my rock, she's the jackhammer.

Seth is looking at me with such concern that it's got me unhinged. When he releases the wood to the ground and walks toward the pen door, I'm flooded with relief. The Marine has arrived, chickens. Your asses are grass.

"Did you turn on the light?" he asks, opening the gate to come inside.

"What light?"

Seth walks up the ramp and into the coop, ducking his head as he enters. He snaps on a little light that hangs from the ceiling and comes outside again.

"They like the light. Give them a few minutes, and they'll tuck themselves into bed."

Did Dad mention the light? I don't remember it, but in my bird-phobic state, maybe I blocked it out. It takes a couple of minutes before the first chicken migrates up the ramp and into the coop. I have no doubt that the rest will eventually follow, and they'll all soon be snug in the house for the night.

"You can go," Seth says. "I'll come by here in a little bit and close the door to the coop."

"No," I say firmly, "I've come this far, I'm finishing the job."

Seth chuckles as we watch another chicken waddle up the ramp. "I wish I could have seen more of you chasing those chickens around because what I did see was priceless."

I scowl, but it's difficult to keep a straight face. I'm too grateful for the rescue, and I have to admit, I did look ridiculous.

"You don't even know about my fear of birds. What I did was heroic. In middle school, my science teacher let his pet pigeon out in our classroom, and I dove under a lab table and refused to come out for the rest of the period. I was traumatized for life."

"You don't have a pet and you hate birds. Tell me again why you're a vegetarian?" he asks.

This time around, I get that he's teasing me, not criticizing my life choices.

"Just because I don't want to hang out with them doesn't mean I think people should kill and eat them."

Now that I'm no longer in a hot panic, I notice how Seth looks in his worn jeans, black t-shirt and work boots. My mind flashes back to the way his damp shirt was clinging to his abs on the day of the storm, and I flush from my neck up to my cheeks. I'd like to grab that black t-shirt with both of my hands and raise it up over his head—

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks, breaking me from my dirty daydream. "You look like you might have heat exhaustion. It's really hot out here today, and if you don't drink enough water, it can be dangerous."

I'm getting warm again, but it has nothing to do with the weather.

When we first met, I thought Seth was a patronizing jerk, but now I'm realizing that he's sincere in his concern. Seth worries about other people. He's a bit of a caretaker, actually.

"I'll drink some water when we get back," I say, placing my palms on my burning cheeks. Thank god he isn't a mind reader.

"You have scratches." He gently pinches my arm at the elbow and inspects some of my chicken war wounds. I wonder if he feels me shiver at his touch. "I'm sorry. If I knew you got scratched like that, I wouldn't have laughed."

"Who knew chickens were so lethal?" I say lightly, even though we both know I was terrified.

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