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‘But then the red chook did a runner when I was drawing a warning picture to keep snakes away—you know, art with purpose.’
‘Art with purpose.’ She felt slightly dazed. ‘Who knew?’
‘Yeah, but major freaking problem: Joey hasn’t even named the red one yet, so I can’t even call it to come home.’
‘You’ve lost anactualchicken.’
‘Um … hello … read my sign,’ said Little Miss Gumboots.
‘When did you last see the escapee?’
‘Well, I guess it was sometime between when I finished the apple and when I gave the core to Dobbin.’
‘So … a few minutes ago? Ages and ages ago?’
‘Long enough for me to make this epic sign.’
Good point. Not recently. ‘We could just go and find your Uncle Joey, and maybe he doesn’t mind that one of his chickens is lost. Maybe helikesto set chickens free. You know, not being a real farmer and all.’
‘You don’t know my Uncle Joey very well, do you?’
‘Um, no. Not at all, actually.’
‘He’s the oldest brother, which Auntie Flickhatesbecause she’s super bossy and she liked it better when Joey lived in Sydney and never visited us, but he’s good with animals so he can’t be all bad, right?’
‘Right.’ It seemed easier just to agree.
‘Even though he eats meat,’ the kid continued, ‘which technically makes him a murderer, but whatever. What I’m saying is he’ll bedevoif I’ve lost his chook.’
‘Devo?’
The kid rolled her eyes. ‘De-vas-ta-ted,’ she sounded out.
Kirsty laughed—the girl was a firecracker. ‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves properly before we start hunting for this chicken. I’ve told you my name, Kirsty, Kirsty Fox, and I think you must be Amy.’
‘Amy Miles. Pleased to meet you.’
‘I’m no expert chicken huntress, but I’m taller than you, so I might be able to see further.’
‘Huntress. Is that like some gendered way of saying hunter?’
‘Er … I guess so. Was that wrong?’
Amy slid an icy little hand into hers. ‘So, so wrong, Kirsty,’ she said in a comforting tone. ‘You have a lot to learn.’
Wow. The kid was super sweet, in a bossy, judgemental kind of way. She could give up a few minutes of her day to look for a chook …and hopefully find an uncle to restore the kid to while she was at it. Preferably one whose bossing-about skills extended to persuading Amy to put some clothes on.
She gave the hand a little squeeze. ‘Where do you suggest we start searching?’
Before Amy could share her opinions on where escapee chickens liked to hang out, a frantic barking sounded from the front of the house. Amy raised big eyes to hers. ‘Holy cow. That must be Gus! Would he know that chickens are off the menu?’
Kirsty grimaced. ‘I doubt it, honey. I mean, I’ve barely met him, but he didn’t strike me as a dog with a good understanding of rules.’
‘Crikey. How fast can you run?’
‘Like the wind,’ Kirsty said, which was an outrageous lie, but the situation seemed to call for an outrageous response. ‘Let’s go rescue a chicken.’
Turns out Gus was not the aggressor in the dog-versus-hen standoff occurring by the front steps of the homestead. He was quivering, all thirty-odd kilograms of him, like hairy jelly before a strutting, bold hen the size of a soccer ball.
