The eggs had hatched overnight, Fran discovered when she
arose at her habitual pre-sunrise hour. They'd
overturned their baskets, spreading plastic grass everywhere. Making coffee was complicated by the blue and
red and striped and speckled little chicks, all marshmallow and bright
sugar-painted eyes, who ran helter-skelter through the kitchen, peeping merrily
to one another. Fran smiled to watch
them; they sparked memories of her youth on the farm, and remembered vitality
gave her a warmth unmatched by the coffee.
Abruptly, they all froze at a sound from overhead: the soft,
ominous pad of a pajama-clad foot on the staircase.
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