One day, when Poppy had taken the bus to work so Mrs. Abboud could pick up Rafik after soccer practice, Liyana rode along and they stopped first at a butcher shop to buy chicken for dinner. It was the first time Liyana had entered one here. She followed her mother into the stinky store crowded with stacked shelves of crooked stick and wire cages. The chickens in the cages were alive and cramped, jabbering, in their boxy prisons. They were not headless body parts on Styrofoam plates wrapped neatly in anonymous plastic in a refrigerated grocery compartment. They were not thighs, drumsticks, and breasts. Downy feathers from their soft chests stuck between the bars of the cages. Liyana pulled a feather free and smoothed her finger over it. The chickens were breathing, chattering, humming. They were looking at her. At each other. And lifting their wings. Her mother took a deep breath and said, “Wahad, min-fadlack.” One, please. Poppy had taught her the necessary phrases to get through a day.
