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instant, but Tercepia pushed it in fun and the two of them began to run together along the sides of the barn. They took turns chasing each other and otherwise wasting time, or Portafack would have lost them.
    They stopped and the girl bent down and hugged the dog.
    “Tercepia!” Portafack yelled sharply. She jerked up and looked at him. “Egg!” he called.
    The blue-eyed dog laid its ears flat against his head and trotted off to the trees, the edge of a woodlands that began a few hundred yards from the pens. Tercepia’s gaze followed him.
    “Egg!” Portafack repeated to get her attention again. She turned and walked ahead of him.
    Portafack passed an opening in the barn and saw pigs inside with rows of noses along their spine. He made a face. A few more yards and Tercepia turned into a small building.
    There were elevated glassed-in terrariums with heat lamps along one wall. Across from them were chickens in large cages. At the far end there was laboratory equipment and a few technicians. One got off the phone and waved at Portafack. He pointed to the glass cage where Tercepia was standing, so he went over and selected an egg with a pronounced crack.
    He held it in his palm. It was warm and heavy and he covered it with his fist for a moment, just testing its weight. He felt a vibration in the egg, a kind of internal wiggle.
    “Look, Tercepia,” he said. “I think it’s hatching.”
    Tercepia grinned and stuck her head over the egg, blocking his view. He could smell her slightly, a little grubby, a little salty. He took a slow breath and moved his hand higher, luring her closer.
    She brushed against him, intent on the egg. It was moving gently from side to side and he could feel a sort of thump now. He moved the egg from one hand to the other, and Tercepia followed it so she was no longer beside him but in front of him. Her eyes were stuck on the egg. He took his free hand and brushed it against her arm in a studied, casual way. He was watching her even as he felt the egg move. He had to control his breathing so she wouldn’t notice anything. His fingertips moved gently forward. She was wearing a thin cotton dress. It wasn’t fresh. She had been wearing it long enough so that it had softened and lay against her skin. His fingers touched the side of her breast. It would seem like an accident. He could smell her hair.
    She moved slightly when he touched her, shifting her weight differently, but her head blocked his view of the egg. He was more interested in accidentally touching her again, to see what her reaction would be. But then the egg began to thump in the palm of his hand and a very natural curiosity caused him to push her slightly aside so he could see.
    The thumping, or whatever it was, was rocking the egg noticeably. He listened for little pecks or some kind of chirping; he was sure that would happen as soon as the shell was broken, but it didn’t exactly break. Instead, the egg seemed to bulge a little at one point, and the rocking took on a strong rhythm. The bulge was noticeable.
    Suddenly the shell broke, and a dark pink thing poked out. It was soft and thick and curled a little like a tube.
    Portafack was fascinated and repulsed. He felt Tercepia trembling with excitement.
    The pink thing poked out some more and the shell broke in half.
    “It’s a tongue,” he said, finally recognizing it, and Tercepia lunged forward, pushing her head in again over the egg. He thought she might eat it, so he grabbed her by the upper arm, holding her tightly. She twisted away, but her eyes were still trained on the egg. He held it out slightly, liking the way she struggled against him.
    The tongue wiggled against his palm. He dropped it in surprise and the girl tried to fall down on top of it. She crouched low and he bent down. “No,” he said. “Don’t eat it. No.”
    The second “no” caused her to move back on her haunches, her eyes still trained on the egg, which was wriggling on the ground. He didn’t