Chapter 3: Luck, Feathers, and Trouble

Listening to the other staff’s jokes, I had mixed feelings.

I smiled through gritted teeth, trying not to let the teasing get to me. Back in high school, I’d learned the best way to deal with bullies was to laugh along—at least until you found your footing.

Chicken Boy... Did that mean I was just the chicken-raising guy from the maintenance crew? Not exactly a compliment, but it didn’t matter. I knew my place. They mocked me, but there was a hint of envy too—saying I must have insane luck. With average skills, I was still the first of my batch to get promoted.

I caught a few sidelong glances—guys whispering by the water cooler, wondering how a no-name like me moved up so fast. I shrugged it off, reminding myself that luck is just opportunity meeting hustle. My chicken, of course, strutted around my new yard like it owned the place.

That chicken had helped me a lot. My quick rise even caught the managers’ attention. They came to check me out, but left disappointed.

I could tell they expected something dramatic—a genius at work, or maybe a hidden connection to the director. Instead, all they got was me, patching up the fence and offering a polite smile.

Their verdict: this kid’s talent is average—probably just a lucky streak.

I heard the verdict through the grapevine—an overheard conversation in the hallway, a sidelong glance at the break room microwave. It stung, but I’d take luck over nothing any day.

At first, the staff treated me pretty well, thinking maybe I had some secret connection. But climbing too fast isn’t always a good thing, is it?

People started asking questions, giving me long looks in the elevator. A few tried to cozy up, others steered clear. The more I succeeded, the less I felt like I belonged. Still, I kept my head down and did the work.

The moment I set up a chicken coop in my yard, some senior guys came to cause trouble. They claimed it was against the rules to keep chickens on staff property—especially such an ugly, fat one. They ordered me to tear down the coop and roast the chicken for them.

It happened on a Saturday afternoon. I was putting up fresh wire, humming along to country radio, when they showed up—Senior Staffer Mike and his buddies, smelling like cheap beer and trouble. Their words dripped with mock authority, trying to flex in front of the new guy.

Tearing down the coop was one thing, but killing the chicken? Did anyone ask the chicken? Even if it agreed, the rare birds from the research aviary wouldn’t stand for it.

My heart hammered as they circled, eyeing the chicken like it was already on a platter. I caught the chicken’s eye; it looked at me with a cocky, unafraid glare. Part of me wanted to laugh at their bravado, but mostly I was scared stiff.

Senior Staffer Mike had just grabbed a broom when a crane’s cry rang out. Dozens of fierce rare birds swooped down and pecked his head until it was covered in lumps. The other guys got splattered with bird poop.

It was chaos—wings flapping, feathers flying, staffers running for cover as rare white cranes dive-bombed from the trees. Mike’s buddies ducked and swore as bird crap splattered their uniforms. Someone yelled, "It’s like freaking Jurassic Park out here!"

They couldn’t fight off the birds, nor did they dare try. Then the manager from the aviary arrived, and the look he gave me made my heart sink. I was doomed. This was getting out of hand.

He strode onto the lawn, lab coat flapping, taking in the scene with a frown. My mouth went dry. I braced for a lecture—or worse, a pink slip.

Mike, face swollen and bruised, pleaded, "Boss, we—we didn’t do anything! They attacked us first..."

He rubbed his head, glaring at me as if I’d orchestrated the whole thing. The rest of the crew shuffled their feet, faces pale, trying to fade into the background.

Everyone else looked pale with fear. Since it started because of me, they figured I’d be punished too.

I felt their stares burning into my back. Guilt twisted in my gut, but I didn’t say a word. Let the chips fall where they may.

But to everyone’s shock, the manager rushed over and hugged me. He pulled me in, hard enough to make my ribs creak. I smelled coffee and menthol on his coat. "Good, good! These rare cranes were on the verge of death, but who would’ve thought they’d escape the aviary and come to you—now they’re completely recovered!"

He squeezed my shoulder like a proud uncle, grinning from ear to ear. The other staff’s jaws hit the floor. If I’d told them I’d cured the birds with chicken feathers, they’d have locked me up for sure.

The manager eyed me suspiciously. "Is that chicken yours?"

I felt the color drain from my face. The birds, as if on cue, circled the chicken, bowing low as though it was their feathery messiah. My palms sweated.

I turned and saw dozens of white cranes circling the chicken as if worshipping it.

The sight was almost comical—like a scene from a wildlife documentary gone off the rails. I tried to look innocent, but my stomach churned.

Oh no. Was something about to be exposed?

A bead of sweat slid down my neck. The chicken puffed up, trying to look as normal as possible, but I saw the spark of mischief in its eye.

The manager walked over, face unreadable. "Why are they all circling this fat chicken?"

Me: ...

Staff: ...

We all stood there in silence, the kind that makes your ears ring. Somewhere, a crow called in the distance. I shrugged, hoping my poker face held.

No clue. To us, it was just an ordinary chicken. Well, maybe a little fatter than most.

I glanced at the others, hoping someone would speak up. They all just looked at the ground, shuffling their feet, pretending not to notice.

But what kind of chicken was this, really?

I looked down at my feathered companion, its eyes glinting with secrets. Whatever it was, my life would never be the same—and I was finally okay with that. Somewhere behind me, the chicken clucked—a sound that promised secrets, trouble, and maybe, finally, a little bit of luck.