4338.211 · July 30, 2018 AD
Leather Seats and Greasy Fingers
Beatrix brought a goat. And chickens. Of course she did. Now Karen's chasing hens across the Drop Zone like a woman possessed, dust in her teeth, dignity in tatters, while Paul grins and suggests they turn Glenda's BMW into a coop. It's absurd. It's exhausting. It's the most alive she's felt in days. And later, over stolen chips and something called cheeseslaw, she'll remember why small joys matter.
The goat's name is Vincent. The chickens have no names, but they have opinions—and those opinions involve not being caught.
When Beatrix's latest rescue mission deposits a bleating goat and a clutch of wily hens into Bixbus, Paul turns to Karen with a grin and an impossible suggestion: Glenda's BMW. Leather seats. Climate control. The most expensive chicken coop in history.
What follows is pure farce. The hens scatter like seasoned escape artists, dodging every lunge, leaping onto heads, strutting away with infuriating satisfaction. Karen ends up sprawled in the dust more than once, laughing harder than she has since arriving. Eventually, food proves smarter than force. The hens settle into their luxury accommodation. Victory, of a sort.
But the day isn't done.
Beatrix returns from Broken Hill with Rags chips and something called cheeseslaw—a creamy, tangy revelation that turns a simple meal into communion. Karen and Paul share it in silence as the sun retreats, shoulder to shoulder, greasy fingers and easy quiet. They don't bring it back to camp.
Some moments aren't meant to be shared with everyone.
Just with the ones who've earned their place beside you.
