Chapter 2: Deals with the Devil (or Chicken)

Saint Peter? Was that some famous preacher or something?

I scratched my head, glancing at the crucifix someone had nailed to the chicken coop wall back in the seventies. Never thought I’d hear a chicken calling on a saint. Was this bird Catholic, or just confused?

I kept my back to the chicken, not daring to look. Some secrets are best left unseen.

You ever get that feeling—like if you peeked behind the curtain, your whole life would change? I figured it was safer just to keep my head down. Let sleeping chickens lie.

Early the next morning, I didn’t hear the rooster crow. I rushed to the coop, and a few other rookies snickered at me.

I could feel their eyes on me before I even rounded the corner, their laughter slicing through the crisp mountain air. Breakfast in the staff lounge would be cold eggs and burned toast, but I didn’t care. I had more important things to worry about than fitting in.

"Hey Ben, did you name your chickens yet, or do you just talk to them?"

"No connections and still dreaming of making it big. Not one of us."

"Maybe if he works hard enough, some manager will take pity on him."

The jibes rolled off me like rain off a poncho. I kept my head down, boots splashing through yesterday’s puddles. None of them knew what I’d sacrificed—or that I had a secret in the coop.

I ignored them. After all, I’d just spent a whole gift card on that chicken.

I told myself it was an investment, not a bribe. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t afford many more risks like this.

Before I could say anything, Mr. Lawson from the facilities office scolded them:

Mr. Lawson’s voice carried across the gravel, stern but not unkind. I’d always respected him—he’d started out just like me, working his way up from the bottom, one busted water main at a time.

"You lot, enough with the attitude. Blue Ridge staff should have this kind of drive, energy, and sense of responsibility."

The others just laughed awkwardly and didn’t talk back, but they didn’t show Mr. Lawson much respect either. After all, they had connections. Mr. Lawson knew the facilities office was just a stepping stone for the well-connected. The director always said: everyone starts at the bottom, no exceptions. Everyone climbs the ladder step by step.

I remembered the time he found me fixing the busted heater at midnight, slipping me a can of Coke and a tired smile. Respect goes both ways, he’d said, and he’d always meant it.

I gave Mr. Lawson a polite nod and hurried to the chicken coop. As soon as I walked in, that chicken fixed me with a burning stare.

I could feel its gaze the second I stepped through the door—sharp, unblinking, hungry. Like it was waiting for me to pull another miracle out of my pocket.

"Yo, kid’s here. Got any more gift cards?"

Its eyes were practically glowing with hope. My heart, on the other hand, was ice cold. I had nothing left. It takes half a year to earn a single gift card—the next one was at least three months away.

I clenched my empty wallet in my pocket, the fabric worn thin from years of being half-full. There was nothing left to give, unless the chicken accepted IOUs.

I stared at it. It stared back. With one claw, it kicked a nearby hen aside, cursing: "Jeez, did these hens eat something weird? They’re all in heat and keep pouncing on me. Get lost, we’re not even the same species! If I hadn’t been set up, I wouldn’t be stuck in this dump."

The chicken’s rant echoed through my head, somehow both pitiful and hilarious. I bit back a laugh—if anyone overheard, they’d send me to HR for a psych evaluation.

Holy crap! The chicken talked! Wasn’t its mojo supposed to be gone?

I took a closer look, heart thumping. The glint in its eye was sharper than yesterday—something was changing.

Then I noticed two shiny black feathers sprouting from its neck—clearly not normal. This matched the descriptions of rare animals in the Institute’s records. Rare creatures are valuable from head to toe. This chicken really was something special.

I remembered hearing about a rare crow-black rooster in the research files, one that had nearly sparked a bidding war among collectors. My hands itched—was this my big break?

Swallowing hard, I took a step forward. "You ate my gift card—shouldn’t I at least get one of your feathers in return?"

My voice came out steadier than I felt. Inside, I was sweating bullets, rehearsing what I’d say if anyone from security walked in on this bizarre negotiation.

The chicken shuffled back two steps, a weird look in its eyes. It squawked, "Dude, chill! Just look, don’t pluck—seriously."

It—it called me dude?

For a split second, I saw myself in the chicken’s desperate eyes. We were both at the bottom, both scrapping for every little advantage. I relaxed my grip, just a little.

Startled, I didn’t dare touch it again. Who knew what tricks it had up its sleeve? While feeding the chickens, I said, "If I wanted to hurt you, couldn’t I just report you to the Institute?"

My threat was empty, but the chicken didn’t know that. The last thing I wanted was for the researchers to swoop in and dissect my only chance at a better life.

"Don’t! I’ll give you a feather, okay? Can you get more gift cards?"

The chicken’s bargaining skills were almost as desperate as mine. I nearly laughed—almost.

I hesitated. "Depends how much your feather is worth."

I tried to sound shrewd, like one of those guys at the flea market haggling over old baseball cards.

In the end, we struck a deal: I’d trade gift cards for its feathers, splitting the profits thirty-seventy—I get thirty, it gets seventy. But it had to stay secret. That was easy enough; there were ways to sell things at the local flea market.

The flea market smelled like kettle corn and old vinyl, and nobody cared what you sold as long as you didn’t shortchange them. I never thought I’d be running contraband chicken feathers on a Saturday morning, but here I was—risking it all for a shot at something better. I made sure to keep my phone off, my head down, and the feathers hidden in an old Pringles canister. The flea market folks didn’t ask questions as long as the cash was green.

Over the next few months, I shuttled between the chicken coop and the market, using the profits to boost my status up to the top of the rookie ranks. All its old feathers were gone, replaced by shiny black ones. But it insisted on keeping a low profile, claiming it had enemies at Blue Ridge, so it went back to looking like an ordinary fat rooster.

I became a familiar face at the market, always with a fresh batch of “handcrafted art supplies.” The money added up—enough for a decent winter coat and a little extra for my savings jar. Each time I glanced at the chicken, I felt a strange sort of gratitude, even as it tried to look as boring as possible for the researchers’ daily walk-throughs.

Mr. Lawson took good care of me, recommending me for a real staff position. I was promoted to junior staff at Blue Ridge Institute.

He even gave me a handshake and a new set of keys—real keys, not just the maintenance ring I’d been using. It felt like winning the lottery, even if it was just a key to a slightly less grim break room.

Before I left, he asked if I wanted to bring anything with me. Under his surprised gaze, I said, "I’ll take a chicken."

The words slipped out before I could stop myself. Mr. Lawson blinked, then broke into a wide grin, clapping me on the shoulder. In his mind, I was just a sentimental kid, loyal to the end.

"Good, good! Never forgetting your roots is admirable."

Me: ...

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. If only he knew.

I joined the staff and immediately got a nickname—Chicken Boy.

My first day on the new crew, the name spread faster than gossip at a Sunday potluck. I tried to play it cool, but my cheeks burned every time someone called out, "Yo, Chicken Boy!"