Quitters

     At sunset, they gathered the flock. The chickens and the ducks were cooperative. The turkeys were skittish and flew into the trees en masse, requiring the couple to climb the trees and prod the turkeys down repeatedly. This continued until the turkeys surrendered, exhausted. Once the show was over, the geese ambled into the barn.

     Brandon and Brittany went straight to their bunks and were lulled to sleep by the rhythmic sound of crickets, until it was interrupted by the cacophony of frantic flapping, pecking on glass, and small bodies thudding against the wood siding.

     Brandon stumbled to the screened window, but his view was obliterated by thousands of pulsing feathers. Brittany was horrified. A mob of assorted fowl seemed intent on invading the tiny house. Chickens and turkeys threw themselves against the building while the ducks, in formation like a cheerleading squad, tooted, “Quack, quack! Go back! Go back!” The geese loitered across the yard by the barn door, tittering like proud parents whose offspring had finally risen to their expectations.

The besieged couple were petrified. Nothing like this had ever happened to them in the city. There was the occasional mugger, of course, but never an attack by crazed birds.

     “Oh my God, Brandon,” said Brittany, as she scrutinized the once-cute chicken-sized cubbies along the walls. “Do you suppose we’re living in the chicken house?”

     “You’re right,” said Brandon. “The old lady must’ve swapped buildings. Redoing the coop was probably easier than renovating the barn.”

     “Well, she should’ve consulted the birds. They’re desperate to sleep in their home.”

     An hour later, the birds gave up and everyone went to sleep. In the morning, Brandon and Brittany slumped at the little table, drinking tea. Feathers were embedded in the screens and hid the trees from their view. The exhausted couple was unhappy. They hadn’t gotten a chance to go on a picnic or nap in the sunshine or pick wildflowers, but both agreed they’d spent enough time in the country and vowed to return to the safety of the city they knew.

     Brandon checked for feathered assailants before opening the door, then he jogged down the lane to find a cell signal to call an Uber. Mrs. Pierce pulled up as he arrived at the highway.

     “Sleep well?” she asked.

     “There’s a big problem,” he said. “We’re living in the chickens’ house. They want it back.”

     “My dear, I’m too old to take care of the farm. I promised my late husband to never sell but the house burned down last year. When I learned young people were abandoning the city during the pandemic and tiny houses were trendy, I figured it’d be a win-win.”

     “Where do you live?”

     “In town. I never thought I’d ever get the smell of chicken shit out of my clothes, but I finally succeeded.”
     “Were you coming to check on us?”

     “I was coming to pick up the eggs. I sell them at the farmers market.” She scowled. “You didn’t collect them this morning, did you?”

     “No.”

     “Get in. You’d better work fast. I need to deliver them to the stall by ten.”

     With no chance of a ride to the station without the old lady’s cooperation, Brandon collected hundreds of eggs from the barn, and Brittany packed their suitcases and slipped them into the truck bed as the old lady dozed.

     “We’re leaving. Now,” Brandon said as they secured the eggs in the back of the truck and piled into the front seat. “You’ll have to find someone else.”

     “You’re just a couple of quitters, you are,” said Mrs. Pierce, scowling through her mask. “I thought city people were tougher.”

     Not wanting to jeopardize their ride to the station, they rode in silence.

     Brandon and Brittany returned by train to their studio apartment, which had magically grown to the perfect size. Online they bought a hydroponic herb garden that hung on the wall, a couple of grow-lights, and an exercise bike. They masked up and went out for chicken cordon bleu at their favorite restaurant, now conveniently located down the block, with outdoor seating in the bike lane. Brittany always loved a good chicken dinner.