She peeked inside the hogans and found the most basic of living quarters. She used one of the composting toilets. Then she visited the animal pens. She bypassed the cows and pigs and stood for a while at the chicken coop watching the birds pecking around and the roosting poles crowded with hens. Ben’s uncle in Kentucky kept chickens, and she and Ben sometimes drove over for fresh eggs. On their first visit, the animals had flocked around Becca’s ankles like she was one of their own. They were like dogs or cats, the way they rubbed their plump bodies against her legs. Had anyone ever known chickens to act this way? “Did you rub your jeans with feed?” Ben joked. Unfamiliar with the ways of livestock, Becca was afraid the birds would start pecking her, so she stood there, paralyzed, in the center of the chicken swarm as Ben laughed and laughed. From that moment on, Becca was his chicken. I love you, Chicken. Don’t worry, Chicken. What’s the matter, Chicken? Let me compete for your father, Chicken.
