New Zealand. We had chickens. They were expected to lay eggs, but I don’t think they ever did. Our chicken coop was routinely raided by neighborhood dogs. Feathers, blood. Every chicken gone. Except one. A little brown bantam named Chicken Little would emerge from the straw, the shadows…She was mine. We’d get more chickens, and it would happen all over again. I don’t know why we didn’t just secure the coop better. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. Well, I kind of know now. It was terrible waking up to a fresh massacre, following my mother outside to discover the chickenpocalypse. Hoping at least Chicken Little survived. Waiting for her to appear with my heart in my throat. My father would take me aside; he would explain it again: the other chickens were stupid. Chicken Little was the smartest. She was special. She survived.