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She’d told me she was tough. I already knew she was stubborn. Tough and stubborn were the sorts of things that might come in handy when trying to do something impossible.
    And she seemed to really want to come with me.
    It felt good to have someone want that.
    Well, shoot. She’d worn me down. I shook her hand, then watched until she disappeared into the trees along the streambed.
    â€œWho was that?” Daddy asked.
    â€œThat was our running away partner. Now, keep quiet or you’ll distract me.”
    Daddy snorted. “You sound like me on the golf course.”
    I smiled at that. A soft light was on in the upper bedroom, but I didn’t see any movement. Taking a deep breath, I wedged my shoes between the fence boards and shimmied up to the top. Heaving my body over the side wasn’t too difficult, except for the last part. The falling part.
    I slipped down the splintered fence, catching on a stray nail. Its edge scratched against my chest, ripping my shirt from waist to armpit before I smacked into dirt dust and sprigs of Alabama crabgrass. I shut my lips tight so I wouldn’t cry out and lay there for a few seconds to catch my breath. Then I sat up and got to my feet.
    A sign above the henhouse said MRS. CLUCKSY’S PALACE , and it was the goofiest thing I’d ever seen for a pet. More like a garden shed, the wooden structure stood five feet high and eight feet wide. The door was just big enough for me to squeeze through. Twinkly light strands and plastic ears of corn, all with evidence of heavy-duty pecking, were stapled around the entrance. One more check toward Pastor Frank’shouse, then I poked my head in the chicken palace and heard the familiar snoring that’s particular to birds.
    â€œYou sure it’s under her?” I said to Daddy.
    â€œHeck, yes. There were only a couple of us left one night and someone was talking about security guards at a hunting store in Mobile. Frank started bragging about his security system and how Mrs. Clucksy guards the night’s take by sitting on it after she’s done with her shift. He even said he puts it in a big plastic egg, so she feels motherly.”
    I didn’t see how Mrs. Clucksy could ever be the motherly type. She spent her nights wearing a cape and strutting along the bar, taking pecks at bowls of corn nuts and sips of the patrons’ beer. The new town preacher spoke a whole sermon about her one Sunday, saying how the minions of Satan come in all shapes and sizes, and that beer-drinking chickens were an abomination and were certain to carry disease.
    â€œOkay, Daddy. You stay here.” Taking off the pack, I tickled my fingers in the air to loosen up the joints and leaned my entire torso inside Mrs. Clucksy’s home. It was cave dark in there, so I backed out, yanked on a strand of twinkly lights, and brought it in with me.
    Sweet Sally, “palace” was no understatement. This was a royal castle for chickens. Lengths of red velvet hung like wallpaper, and several shiny bowls were secured by a metal rack that ran the length of one side. Mrs. Clucksy had herpick of corn, wheat, seeds, and what appeared to be bran cereal. Water and an amber liquid were the beverage options, the pee-colored stuff smelling suspiciously like beer.
    â€œHey! What’s going on in there?” Daddy whispered.
    I ignored him, advancing on my knees to the throne at the back. Mrs. Clucksy looked to be as out cold as Mama, and I was hoping for a quick steal and getaway. Barely registering the line of rooster pictures posted near her bed, I paused beside the feather pillow nest and gave her the tiniest of pokes.
    Nothing.
    Mrs. Clucksy’s premises and breath reeked. I held my breath while slipping a hand under her chicken bottom. It was there—a smooth shape that had to be the money. Quickly and gently, I reached my other hand out, lifted her body, and pulled on the egg. Sweaty and grinning with excitement, I set