Page 8 of Any Second Now (Fort Collins Blizzard Hockey #2)
Chickens are Better than People
RALEIGH
T ap tap tap.
There’s a sound at the door to the Pink Palace.
I sit up straight at the table. I’m not expecting anyone.
I toss my phone down next to an almost-complete hoop and small stack of packages to be dropped off at the post office today.
The smile from my text chain with Atticus fades from my face.
Maybe I imagined the sound.
Tap tap tap.
Nope, that’s real.
Maybe I parked too close to a tree, and a branch is blowing against the door to the RV.
Tap tap tap.
No way. Too sharp. And it can’t be someone knocking, unless they’re using something sharp. Like a knife. A breath catches in my throat. I stand and peek out of the curtains. I don’t see anyone. But still, I creep over and grab Fred—my trusty baseball bat—from where he leans next to the door.
Fred makes me feel better about being in the Pink Palace alone all the time. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt me .
Sometimes when I close my eyes at night, my imagination starts running absolutely wild.
I’m often in some kind of woods, or at the edge of the woods, and I’m a single woman in a flimsy pink RV trailer.
It’s not the smartest situation I’ve ever put myself in.
But I refuse to let fear of the man—or bear?
—scare me away from doing what I want to do.
Am I doing what I want to do? Is that what this is? I’m not so sure.
Wait… what if it’s a bear at my door? An actual bear scraping my door with one giant claw that he sharpened on a rock deep in the woods just this morning?
Tap tap tap.
“Shit,” I whisper and reach for the door handle. It’s probably not a bear.
I must’ve parked too close to the tree.
Tap tap tap.
“Screw it.” I fling the door open, Fred resting on my shoulder in a hopefully menacing way.
There’s a flurry of movement jumping toward me and I basically die a thousand deaths, then stumble back until I’m leaning against the kitchen counter. Fred clatters to the floor.
Good to know I have the right instincts to protect myself.
My brain slowly adjusts to what I’m seeing standing right inside the door.
A chicken?
A white chicken, to be exact, with fluffy feathers sticking up around its head and a dark beak. She’s kind of pretty.
Chicken cocks her head at me. I huff a laugh.
“What, no tapping now?” I cross my arms, my gaze flitting down to Fred, although I don’t think Chicken’s gonna get aggressive.
She takes a step forward.
“I mean, what are you doing in my house?” I press back against the counter and extend my foot to the top of Fred and roll him toward me.
She looks back over her shoulder.
“Are you waiting for someone? A chicken friend? Running from something? Like a bear? Need a hiding spot?”
My god, I’m talking to a chicken. I really need more human interaction.
It looks at me.
“Oh, shit, is it a bear?” I sigh and shake my head. “This is no place for a chicken. This campsite. The woods. Colorado, probably. How have you not gotten eaten yet?”
With a flutter of wings, the chicken half-flies further into the RV.
I scream. Then she settles at my feet and her feathers tickle my ankle.
I laugh and do what any reasonable person would do in this situation.
I pull out my phone and take a picture of Chicken staring up at me with my bare feet on either side of her.
I cackle as I press send to Lucy and January, no caption or explanation included.
Ten minutes later, I’m heading to my SUV, Chicken secured safely inside the Pink Palace. I had some folded up cardboard boxes that I taped together to create a little corral to keep her contained. She gave me the dirtiest chicken face when I left her like that, so I promised her I’d be back soon.
What else was I supposed to do? Leave her to die in the elements?
I did some quick googling and it’s a miracle this creature is even alive.
There are so many predators for a chicken in a suburban backyard, let alone the woods of Colorado.
Raccoons, possums, owls, bears, cats (and not the domesticated kind), snakes…
the list gave me the absolute creeps. How did it survive the night?
Where did it come from? Is there a chicken owner somewhere frantically searching for their lost foul?
I’ll deal with finding her potential owner later.
For now, I can’t leave her out there. It’s a terrifying battleground for a chicken.
I had an intense internal battle myself when I opened a fresh spreadsheet and created tabs for supplies, feeding schedule, general information about chicken care… no.
I do not need a spreadsheet for everything.
I closed it but did not delete it.
I repeat I do not need a spreadsheet for everything to myself as I get into my SUV to drive to a local farm store I found online. Not something that was on my bingo card for today, but I have to go to town anyway to mail the hoop orders.
I shut my door and pull up directions just as a woman emerges from the RV in the campsite next to mine. She waves and I roll down the window.
“Morning!” She’s a middle-aged woman with blonde hair streaked with gray, holding a mug that says FC Cincinnati. She’s the one I saw walking her dog with her husband yesterday. The one who saw me with the poop tube. At least she understands what that’s like.
“Hello,” I say. “You don’t happen to be looking for a chicken, are you?”
“A… chicken?” The woman’s eyes widen and she pauses, then glances back at her partially open RV door. Is she wondering if I’m a crazy person?
“Yeah, never mind.” I shake my head. “I’m Raleigh. Staying next to you.” I nod to the Pink Palace and do my best to look sane.
“I’m Elizabeth. My husband—Darren—and I just got here yesterday with our dog. We’re from Cincinnati.”
“Nice to meet you.” I nod. “Well. I’m off to buy chicken food! See you later!” I wave and pull away, cackling when I look in my rearview mirror and see her watching me leave with a seriously confused look on her face.
I navigate the unfamiliar roads and head to the post office first, dropping off my completed orders. This side hustle is… not ve ry profitable. I love it, though. Maybe one day I can figure it out. Or not, and just keep it as an intense hobby.
Next to the post office is a cute little shop called Rocky Gifts. I stop in and am greeted with an adorable store filled with gifts and crafts and cards. There’s a local artists section, and I pick up a postcard print of Fort Collins and a clay mug.
“These are so cute,” I say to the cashier as she checks me out. The cost is way more than my total profit from the hoops I mailed out.
“Yeah, the owner loves to stock local items.”
“Have any cross-stitch?”
“Huh? Oh.” She purses her lips. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Bye!” I spin and leave the store, another confused person in my wake.
I am not a local artist. And I am not trying to stock my cross-stitch in a Colorado gift shop.
The farm store is on the outskirts of Fort Collins, and I sit in the parking lot for a second to check out responses from Lucy and January to my chicken picture.
January
Um. Why is there a chicken in your RV? On your feet?
Lucy
Are you eggs-ploring some pet options, sis?
January
She’s clearly just winging it
Lucy
We egg-spect you to answer right away
I cackle and type out a response.
Me
She literally knocked on my door a little while ago. What was I supposed to do? I’m buying her food now
January
That chicken is clucky she found you, babes
Lucy
You’re cracking me up
Me
Tell me you guys are googling these puns and don’t just know them off the top of your head
January
Guilty
Lucy
What are you going to name her?
Me
It’s not like I’m going to keep her
Lucy
Then what’s your plan?
What is my plan? I don’t have one. Again. I test how I feel about that. I don’t hate the feeling.
Mom would be horrified.
Me
I have no plan. Any name ideas?
January
Clearly it has to be punny
Lucy
Egghead?
January
Humpty Dumpty?
Me
How about M-egg-hen
January
LOL
Lucy
Yeah. Megghen. I like it. Double pun
I slide my phone into my bag and head into the store. I don’t have a good plan for Megghen, just like I didn’t have a good plan for this whole RV situation. Is this progress? Or just chaos?
Inside the farm store, I’m overwhelmed. I don’t go to many—any?—farm stores in Connecticut. So when an older man in worn jeans and a store branded t-shirt approaches me asking if I need help, I take him up on it.
“You want chicken supplies.” He repeats my request.
Was I not clear?
“Yup. I need chicken supplies.” I nod. “For my chicken.”
“Right.” He waves me to follow. “So you have a coop in your backyard?”
“Mmm, not exactly.”
“Do you have a list of what you need?”
“I can google one if it helps?” I slide my phone out of my pocket and shake it at his back.
He glances over his shoulder and sighs. “Why don’t you tell me about your situation.”
“I live in an RV and I’m unexpectedly taking care of a chicken. Temporarily.”
The man stops short and turns to look at me.
“That’s a new one.”
“Yup.” I nod in encouragement of him to process this faster.
“So you need food, food bowls, water bowls?”
“Probably.”
“Do you have a safe enclosure? ”
“Nope. I don’t have any enclosure, unless the Pink Palace counts.”
He doesn’t ask for clarification.
“Where is the chicken now?”
“In my RV?”
“That’s also new.” He runs his hand through thinning hair. “Let’s get you set up with a simple, enclosed chicken run so she doesn’t have to stay in your house, er, RV. Some shavings so she has a place to rest. A place to nest.”
A hysterical giggle escapes me, and the man looks at me with concern.
“Sorry, sorry. This is just more involved than I thought it would be.”
“Chickens aren’t easy. Or cheap. And this isn’t the best solution. The simple enclosures aren’t the most secure. They’ve gotta be temporary.”
“Maybe we can set up with the minimum to keep her alive while I figure out what to do with her. Like the absolute minimum.”
The man half glares at me.