Eyes open, lying on the floor of the brooding house, I dream that I am pressed against the warm back of the boy from the beach, until the sun comes in through the gaps in the wall, his square shoulders transform into the side of the incubator, and his breath is revealed to be its steam. My clothes are damp as I step out into the dawn, and by the time curtains in the big house open, it appears that I've been up at work for hours, when I've only been scattering my doubts in the feed, anxiously hoping they'll be digested by the screaming beaks, and the litter still needs cleaning, the waterers only drip, half the flock is full of mites, and the rest all limp 'cause they need lancing.

Pekins's cackles are our cockerel crows, and a wooden spoon rapping on other side of the window by my mother's spot by the stove means it's time for me to come inside for breakfast. I try hard to make myself look presentable, knowing it doesn't matter, that I'll never be able to unstick the molt stuck that's stuck to my arms. No one will notice if I smell like I've slept with flock; this whole house smells of duck already anyway. Not roasted but torn. Cleaved, pithed, then drained of most of its blood, and hung to dry with the gizzards still inside. No bath, no night spent in a clean bed, nor no prayer by the foot of that bed would make a difference. I'd made a vow and not eaten their meat for days, and still I stank. So when I needed the energy, I'd make exceptions for the eggs. 

Pop keeps the stick knife in his pocket and uses it to clean his teeth. We butcher all afternoon. I groan as I stuff the birds upside-down into the cones and give Pop a few other reasons to yell at me, so that he doesn't get an idea that I have some special reason to not want to ruffle him, and be good. I go pale when he gives me his stick knife, complain as he shows my hands how to cut each fuzzy throat, and get all jumpy about the way they flapping after their heads have rolled on the floor. Pop says there's no way to stop them from thinking they can survive, even after they've already died. Ma helps scald the bodies and pluck them. I dip them in wax and then pluck them again. White feathers get ground into dirt, down is sold, and most nights, we eat the necks in soup for dinner.

All summer I've been sneaking out. I sip through dinner, without swallowing, brush my teeth, and use the basin in my room to scrub my skin red. When I can hear Pop's snoring from the other room, I climb out the window. The fence was only built to keep birds that were unlikely to become airborne, so I can hop it, without having to deal with that squeaky gate. Push the truck as far as it takes to start it rolling, faster and faster, until I have to chase it, jump in. I hit the gas when the dirt road turns into the state route, and suddenly I'm driving a Cadillac, my perspiration smells like aftershave, and the warm beer of Pop's I swiped has been poured into a frosty glass. Some nights I drive west, building up the courage to go so far, I can't get back in time, and have to keep going. This night, I head east toward the place where the roads all end in a beach, where I can sit and watch the waves, walk the shore and admire all the big houses those people have built. There I see a beach covered in black spots that were box turtles, parties with fireworks and music that makes the guests dance close, and I steal a glass of very strong champagne one time, after it's left out on a porch by a group that have gone inside to sing around a fancy piano. None of these other worlds ever tempts me twice, and I never go anywhere in particular when I go that way, just wander—until I find this quiet beach, where I'd seen a boy lying on the sand, with no one else around, wearing nothing but the moonlight, waiting someone, just like me. 

I find that spot again easily, driving at a whisper speed down the road that leads to the beach, cutting the engine when I spot the clearing in the reeds. I park an inch out onto the strip of rock and debris that marks the tide, where I can stay camouflaged, but still see through the shrub there. Tall, trim hedge runs along on the road, and the beach, and around the corner, on a slope, I can see the front of a castle made of shingles. Banners and lights wave from the tile roof, but the windows are dim, as if the house is already half-asleep. It’s late, but not too far out in the bay, the party continues on a yacht that anchored beneath the stars. The beach feels ghostly, and silent, despite soft music and exclamations carried by the wind over the waves. Somewhere, a door swings. I notice a small gate in the bushes, that connects the house to the beach. The boy comes out in clothes that are stained and half un-done already.

I hope that he will spot me, turn this way, and get in the truck, but he walks right past, without a nod even, and undresses in the shadow of tree a few yards down the shore, then runs down the sand and takes off swimming. I about to go after him, but I catch his head bobbing on water like a yellow pearl, and then I’m frozen, watching him emerge from the surf, walking back to the shoreline, where the moon isn’t so bright, and he can’t be seen by the house or the ocean, and just barely by me. He folds his clothes into a makeshift pillow, but stays propped on his elbows, looking in the direction of the road, where I sit in the dark, hidden behind the cattail curtain. 

I see myself going to him, and seeing the blue in his veins, smelling the saltwater and brilliantine in his hair, and feeling his wet skin. In my mind, I’m already running my tongue along the spaces between his ribs, while in the truck I’m still undoing my boot laces, and then I think twice about going barefoot, and begin to do them up again. I get my shirt half-open, then reconsider that as well. The boy’s head lifts again and looks in my direction. My hand grows sweaty, my grip on the door handle tightens needlessly, while I hesitate. Soft laughter reaching us across the bay.

There’s a sound like a rattling a latch, and when I turn, instinctively, to find its source, I see the gate open again, and another figure swings out. He crosses in front of the truck without noticing me and walks with across the edge of the rocky backshore, teetering on the edges of rocks like a strongman tightrope walker. The boy on the beach, suddenly sat up straight, pulls the shirt that was behind his head over his crotch. I expect he might shout, but he doesn't. I can tell he’s saying something—but whatever it is covered by the sound of the other’s jolly whistle. The wind picks up, the clouds come to cover the moon more completely, and now both boys on the sand are covered in darkness. 

It’s hard to make out, but when I think I see one body roll over the other, I turn on my engine. A big light speeds through the reeds and across the sand, in a great, big circle. At its center, a monster appears. Eight limbs writhing, a twin-mouth roaring in wet and muffled gasps that are louder than the lapping waves. The sudden bright stretches their body across the sand, blinds them, until their forced to disentangle a sudden commotion—there are shouts, the sound of music ending abruptly—they are long, black, unintelligible shapes, that crash into the sea. Two boys scramble, naked, off the sand.

I release the handbrake and turn the wheel all the way, and let the truck spin around, then drive back down the road. The sound of my engine is double as head back to state route, back to the dirt road, back to the brooding house. I lie among the would-be hatchlings, still trapped inside their shells.