With the knife in my hand, I stood there staring at the chicken. And the chicken stared back.

Outside, the rain was pelting against the roof, and because I hadn't let them outside this morning, they were all huddled together in their stall. The whole day had been chaos.

Now I was here, wanting to bleed a chicken to death. With a bucket. And a knife.

I had caught one of the chickens and was holding it in my arms. I was almost certain it was the very one that had so brazenly fooled me a few days ago. Part of me wanted to see it as a measure of...