Egg. Warm. I tuck it into the crook of my arm.
Second hen. Egg.
Third—
Keer Jr. screams.
Shit.
He sees me.
I straighten up just in time to see him round the corner of the pen at full charge—wings out, beak open, beady eyes focused on the human who has dared to enter his domain. This is his routine.
I have a routine for it. The routine is brace, wait for the impact, kick him sideways with the side of my boot.
I brace.
Nugget steps in front of me.
Keer Jr. stops.
Not slows. Stops. All at once. His feet skid in the dirt, his wings fly out wider, his head snaps back. He freezes a few inches from her, bug-eyed, beak still open.
Nugget doesn't move.
She's standing with her usual perfect posture—pink-tinged, slightly dusty, head tilted, deciding whether he's interesting or beneath her. Mostly beneath. Everything is beneath her.
She blinks.
Keer Jr. doesn't blink.
He stays exactly where he stopped.
"...are you okay?"
Nothing. He doesn't even register me.
He's just staring at her. Whole body locked.
Nugget gets bored. Goes back to scratching at the dirt by my boot.
Keer Jr. doesn't move.
I reach for the third egg. Slowly. Crime-scene slow. The hen doesn't notice me. Keer Jr. doesn't notice me. He has not moved a feather since Nugget stepped in front of me. Nugget is studying him. He could be a piece of furniture she's not sure about and might have to move later.
Egg. I tuck it into the crook of my arm with the others.
Three eggs.
I duck back under the rail.
Look back.
Nugget is still standing exactly where she was. Keer Jr. has shuffled half a step closer to her, trying very hard not to be noticed shuffling. His wings are still half-out. His tail feathers—the long ones he uses for screaming and aggression—are lowering. I've never seen them do that.
Nugget tolerates this.
She doesn't move toward him. She doesn't move away. She just stands there in the dust. Allowing it on the condition that he never speaks.
