The cook met them at the coop door on Day fifty-three with a sack over one shoulder and a face like a shut gate.
“Three died in the night,” she said. “The wet got into them.”
“Show me,” said Calen.
She untied the sack and held the mouth open. Three hens lay inside, wrapped in their own feathers, their necks bent the wrong way. Calen did not touch them yet.
He looked at the sack, then at the coop, then at the cook’s hands, which were red from the cold water.
“Pease,” said the cook, and she pointed at the first one with her chin. “Lays on the odd days. That one’s Mother, because she sat on every clutch we ever had.
“And Brown. Brown was stupid. Brown walked into the water butt twice.”
“Pease,” said Tobin. He said it slowly, the way he said anything he meant to keep.
