Page 73 of The Best Shot

I stopped.

The yard stretched long before giving way to something wilder. Split-rail fencing stood half reclaimed by vines, old growth tangled with new.

The sun sat at exactly the angle I would’ve asked for.

I moved toward the tree line, camera already in my hand before I registered reaching for it. A creek ran along the far edge of the property, still water pooling under low branches, the sky reflected in it.

I shot the fencing. The outbuilding off to the side, boards weathered to silver-gray, rusted hinges, paint peeling back in layers like sediment. There was texture everywhere here.

Then I heard them.

I turned.

A chicken coop. Neat. Well-maintained. Completely at odds with my understanding of Hale Henry’s life.

I looked at it.

Then at him.

“You have chickens.”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

My gaze went back to the coop, to the bobbing, purposeful movement behind the wire.

“Hale.”

“What.”

“You have chickens.”

“I heard you the first time.”

I crouched at the edge of the wire and lifted my camera. Afternoon sun caught the green-black sheen of their feathers.

I shot longer than I meant to.

He stood back and let me. Didn’t check his phone. Didn’t rush me. Just watched.

When the light went flat, I stood and looked at him.

“I like them.”

“It’s not giraffes in the Serengeti.”

“I like them.”

He smiled.

He opened the refrigerator and surveyed the contents.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“It’s not bad. It’s just not a lot.”

“Hale.”

“I can cook,” he said, still staring inside like the contents might change if he waited long enough. “I just don’t like cooking for one. Doesn’t seem worth it.”