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when everyone assumes you’re an undocumented immigrant, and she won’t have me growing up with problems like that. What was it like, really, Abuelita? I know about ICE, and I know they can’t take citizens like me and Mom away, so you won’t scare me. Too bad I never asked you before. Mom won’t tell me till I’m older.
    But we were talking about the chicken, and about Mom making up her mind.
    The only luck I had was that the lady hadn’t given my parents her phone number or email address or anything. So Mom decided Dad and I should go into town to the library to look up the lady’s number, while she got some work done for once. Mom’s been having a rough time with this week’s articles, what with all these interruptions.
    Dad and I were both quiet as we drove into town. I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with Henrietta. Hide her, like Anne Frank, maybe in the barn? But Anne Frank knew to stay quiet and hide, and she still got caught.
    I think Dad felt kind of guilty, because he gave my shoulders a hug when we went into the library, and said, “Buck up, Soph. There’ll be other chickens eventually.”
    I didn’t bother to answer. He really didn’t understand.
    Ms. O’Malley was the only one there. She spends a lot of time trying to help me find useful chicken books. (When I first got my library card and wrote Blackbird Farm on the form, she didn’t know I was Dad’s daughter or Jim Brown’s grandniece, and she asked me how long my family was working there. I think she still feels bad about that.)
    Dad and I walked up to the librarian’s desk. I handed Ms. O’Malley my old library books.
    Ms. O’Malley smiled hard at me. “How can I help you today, Sophie?”
    My throat didn’t feel like I could get any words through it, so I didn’t say anything.
    Dad smiled back. “It seems we need a phone number for Sue of Briar Farm, please. We found a little white chicken she lost.”
    Ms. O’Malley raised her eyebrows. “Sue Griegson hasn’t got any bantam whites, and never has. Do you still want her phone number, or can I help you find the true owner?”
    I held my breath and crossed my fingers. Can’t hurt, might help, especially with magic chickens.
    “She told us she had a mixed flock and some went missing.… ” Dad frowned.
    Ms. O’Malley snorted. “Sue has never raised anything but Rhode Island Reds; I swear on my honor as the vice president of our American Poultry Association chapter. You may not be a chicken person, sir, but if it isn’t a big dark reddish-brown bird, it isn’t Sue Griegson’s.”
    “It’s a white hen, about this big.” I held up my hands to show her how big Henrietta is. Way smaller than a standard Rhode Island Red, I hoped. “She has yellow legs and a little red comb.”
    “Bantam White Leghorn, from the sound of it.” She nodded. “The only one with bantam White Leghorns in this area was Jim Brown. Well, aside from Redwood Farm.” She sighed. “When I found out Jim had died, I went over to make sure his flock was cared for, but they were nowhere to be found. There’d been storms that week, and I figured they scattered when the food ran out.”
    She put her hands on her hips and looked at Dad. “You inherited the farm and all its contents, right?”
    Dad nodded slowly.
    Ms. O’Malley smiled at me—a real smile. “Then the chicken’s your responsibility. Unless you’re not able to care for a single chicken?”
    “Er—no, of course we can,” Dad said uncomfortably. “We just wanted to make sure…”
    “Very good, then. The poultry show will be coming up in July; there’ll be a benefit auction of any unwanted birds then, if you really can’t keep her. But I know your daughter’s been studying poultry, so you shouldn’t have any trouble,” Ms. O’Malley said briskly.
    Dad didn’t really have anything left to say then, not even when I checked out the rest of the books on chicken care, or when I told Ms. O’Malley I was thinking about