I even saw Mr. Johnson pass by once, craning his neck toward my backyard. I stayed out of sight, but afterward when I thought about it, I felt a small satisfaction that he was worried enough to come take a look for himself. For the next two weeks, everything went back to normal, but with more anticipation than usual, for we had one hen brooding on eggs. Mark said it would take about three weeks before they would hatch. Counting down the days in my head, I wished it would all go a bit faster. I was so eager for the new arrivals to my flock that it was nearly all I thought about, even as I washed and ironed clothes, kneaded bread dough, or endured Mr. Johnson’s glares and insults at the store. July arrived. There were only two or three days left in my reckoning, and I had started checking regularly to see if the eggs had hatched. I was in the garden with my sisters, thinking as always about my new chicks and planning for how I would feed them, when the air was split by a long, loud screech of metal on metal that raked along my spine like fingernails on slate.
