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I woke up to the sound of a... a rooster?

Where am I, back in Georgia with chickens?

I sat up, blinking in confusion. For a second, the crowing made me think I'd been teleported straight back to the country. But no — when I looked out the window, I was still in Minnesota. And yet... there was Mr. Peterson, our neighbor — and also, awkwardly, my school principal — crouched beside a little backyard chicken coop, casually collecting eggs like he was born on a farm.

I didn't know we were allowed to have chickens here. Now I want some. Like, desperately.

I got dressed in a pair of denim shorts and my favorite too-big hoodie (because summer mornings are still chilly here), then headed outside.

The coop was right up against the side of his fence, tucked between a raised garden bed and a shed with peeling green paint. A few chickens pecked around the yard, completely unfazed by my presence. One of them had feathers that looked like it was wearing fuzzy slippers. I kind of wanted to pet it. Or be it.

"Morning!" Mr. Peterson called out when he spotted me, holding up an egg like a prize. "Didn't mean to wake the neighborhood. That one's got lungs."

He jerked his thumb toward the rooster, who stared me down like he was daring me to start something.

I laughed a little. "You have chickens?"

He grinned. "Started with two during the pandemic. Now we've got eight. It's kind of addicting. You want to meet them?"

Do I want to meet chickens? Yes. Yes, I do.

"Now, Minneapolis doesn't allow roosters," Mr. Peterson explained, brushing a bit of straw off his jeans. "But there's no rule here in Evergreen."

I scrunched my face. "I thought this was Edina?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "It is."

Okay, now I was really confused.

"But Evergreen's a private community," he added. "Technically, we're still part of Edina, but the rules are a little more... flexible. As long as nobody complains, no one's gonna come knocking about a rooster."

I looked over at the big puffed-up bird strutting like he owned the place. "Well, he definitely knows you're not in Minneapolis."

Mr. Peterson laughed. "That's 'Stanley.' My wife named him. We've also got Henrietta, Pickles, Eggatha—"

"Wait—Eggatha?"

"Yup. She's the escape artist. Don't turn your back on her."

I tried not to grin, but it was useless. "Can I hold one?"

He paused, gave me a careful look — not the strict principal kind, just the kind adults get when they're trying to read you without making it obvious.

"You sure you're up for it?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I mean, unless they peck."

"They might. But so do middle schoolers."

Okay. That made me laugh.

"So," Mr. Peterson said as he handed me a warm, freshly laid egg. "How do you like living here?"

I looked down at the egg in my hands, not sure what I expected it to feel like. Heavier? Colder? It was still a little dusty, with a faint trace of straw stuck to one side. Kind of like life right now — weird, messy, but not terrible.

"It's... quiet," I said finally.

"Quiet good or quiet boring?"

I smirked. "Both."

He gave a slow nod like he understood that way too well. "Evergreen's not exactly the most exciting place on the map. But sometimes that's a good thing. After everything that happened—" He cut himself off, not wanting to overstep.

I appreciated that.

"I guess it's kinda nice not having to look over my shoulder every five seconds," I admitted. "Or jump every time a car drives by too slow."

Mr. Peterson didn't say anything for a moment. Just walked over to the coop and opened the little hatch so Henrietta could climb out. She did—like a tiny dinosaur with sass.

"You know," he said gently, "you don't have to pretend you're fine just because it's summer. Healing doesn't care what season it is."

That one hit a little deeper than I expected.

I gave a shrug and tried to play it cool. "I'm okay."

He gave me a look, but didn't push.

"Let me know if you ever want to help with the chickens," he said instead. "I could use an assistant who isn't afraid of feathers."

"I'll think about it." I paused. "Do I get paid in eggs?"

He grinned. "Only if you survive Henrietta."

"I was more afraid of Stanley than Henrietta," I admitted, watching the rooster puff up his chest like he thought he was king of Evergreen.

Mr. Peterson chuckled. "Yeah, Stanley's got a bit of an attitude."

"I used to help with chickens back in Folkston," I said, arms crossed, eyes still fixed on Stanley like he might charge at any second. "The rooster there was like... a bully. I was a lot smaller then, and that damn bird always tried to attack me. Every time I turned my back—bam! Little velociraptor with feathers."

Mr. Peterson laughed harder this time. "Sounds like you've got poultry-related PTSD."

"Basically. I still flinch when I hear flapping wings too fast."

He grinned and handed me a scoop of feed. "Well, lucky for you, Stanley only bullies people who run. Just stand your ground."

"Right. Because standing still totally worked when I was eight," I muttered, dumping the feed into the trough. "That rooster in Georgia had rage issues."

Stanley strutted past me, squawked once, and then turned his back like I wasn't even worth the trouble.

"Wow," I said, raising an eyebrow. "Character development."

Mr. Peterson cracked a smile. "See? He respects you already."

I wasn't so sure. But for the first time in a while, I felt like I could breathe without everything weighing on my chest.

A woman's voice rang out from the back door of Mr. Peterson's house — loud, but not angry.

"George! You forgot the coffee pot on again!"

I jumped a little at first, half-expecting her to yell about the chickens being loose or something. Mr. Peterson just rolled his eyes like this was a regular part of the morning routine.

"That's probably my wife," he said with a grin. "She's been trying to get me to switch to cold brew all summer. Claims I keep 'boiling the house.'"

"I mean... she's not wrong," I said.

"Don't encourage her," he said with mock offense, and then turned toward the house. "It's off now, Sylvia!"

"Better be!" came the reply.

I caught a glimpse of her through the screen door — short, strong-looking, with a floral apron and a purple bandana tied over her hair. She waved when she saw me.

"You must be Emily!" she called. "Come by sometime if you like pie. We always make too much."

"She makes pie for the neighbors?" I asked, eyebrows lifting.

Mr. Peterson nodded. "It's her hobby. If we don't give it away, I end up eating it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

"Sounds terrible."

"Oh, it is." He winked. "Pure suffering."

I handed him back the egg, unsure what I was supposed to do with it.

He waved it away. "No, keep it. In fact, the chickens laid a bunch this morning, and between me and Martha, we can't eat 'em all. They're machines."

I blinked. "Seriously?"

"Tell you what," he said, brushing off his hands. "If you ever want to come by and help with the chickens, you can take home as many eggs as you want for your family."

He paused, squinting thoughtfully. "Your little sister... Lily, right?"

I nodded.

"She'd love fresh eggs for breakfast. Maybe scrambled with cheese or in a little egg sandwich, huh?"

I smiled a little. "She's obsessed with breakfast sandwiches."

"Then it's a deal," he said, reaching into the coop to collect another egg. "You help me not get pecked to death, and you walk home with breakfast."

He gave me enough eggs for breakfast today, tucking them carefully into a small carton he'd kept by the coop.

"Better bring those in," he said with a wink, "before your mom decides to make something else. Like... kale pancakes."

I made a face. "Ew."

He chuckled. "Hey, don't knock it. Martha tried it once. Nearly burned down the house and my appetite."

I laughed, holding the carton like it was treasure. "Thanks, Mr. Peterson."

"Anytime, kiddo. And hey — Stanley didn't try to eat you. That's progress."

"Barely. He glared at me the whole time."

"That's just his face," he said. "He was born with judgmental eyebrows."

I walked home with the carton tucked in both hands like it was made of gold. The grass was still damp from the morning dew, and I could hear lawn sprinklers ticking somewhere down the block. For a moment, it actually felt like summer break was supposed to feel — normal.

When I stepped through the back door, the smell of toast hit me first. The kitchen was already humming with quiet activity.

Mom stood at the stove, still in pajama pants and an old sweatshirt that said "Best Mom Ever" in faded lettering. Sam sat at the table half-awake, blinking at a glass of orange juice like it had offended him. And Lily was already talking to the cat.

"—and then, you sit here, because you're a breakfast guest. Don't drink from my cup again or I'll tell Mom."

"Morning," I said, nudging the door shut with my foot.

Mom turned, eyebrows lifting at the carton. "Did you steal a chicken?"

"Better," I said. "I made a deal with one."

Sam perked up a little. "Wait. Are those real eggs?"

"Yep. Mr. Peterson's chickens. He gave me some for helping."

Lily gasped, leaping from her chair. "Did you pet one?!"

"Almost. But I lived, and that's what matters."

Mom took the carton and opened it carefully, eyes softening. "Well, look at you."

She glanced over at me with a smile that wasn't overly sweet — just proud in that quiet, mom-way.

"Scrambled or sunny side up?" Mom asked.

"Left side up," I said, dropping into a chair without missing a beat.

Sam snorted into his juice. Lily blinked like she was trying to figure out if that was a real thing.

Mom just shook her head, already cracking eggs into the skillet. "One of these days, you're gonna confuse a waiter and it's gonna be glorious."

"Goals," I mumbled, stretching my arms behind me with a grin.

Outside, the rooster crowed again — like he wanted the last word.

Too late, Stanley. I'd already won breakfast.

After breakfast, while Mom was rinsing plates and Sam disappeared to do whatever mysterious preteen boys do, Lily tugged on my sleeve.

"Wanna go to the park with me?" she asked, already halfway to the door like she knew I'd say yes.

I leaned back in my chair. "Didn't you just eat like three eggs and half a waffle?"

She shrugged. "That's my fuel."

"Fuel for what? Tag?"

"Nope. Swings."

Well. That was fair.

I stood up, stretching. "Alright. But if we stop for ice cream, you're carrying me home."

Lily grinned like I'd just promised her a unicorn. "Deal!"

****

The park wasn't crowded, just a few kids on the jungle gym and a couple of moms chatting on a bench with iced coffees in hand. The sun was warm but not too hot, and the swings were still squeaky in that oddly comforting way.

Lily sprinted ahead like she always did, already calling dibs on the higher swing — not that I was planning on racing her or anything. I followed at a normal-person pace and sat on the next swing over.

For a few minutes, we didn't talk. Just swung back and forth, feet kicking lazily at the gravel.

"You seem happier today," Lily said out of nowhere.

I looked over. She was still facing forward, hair blowing back like a tiny superhero.

"Yeah?" I asked.

She nodded. "You smiled at breakfast. For real."

I didn't know what to say to that. I guess I had smiled. The chickens, the eggs, even Stanley's dramatic glare — it was the first morning in a while that didn't feel like I was carrying a backpack full of bricks.

"I like it here," Lily added, pushing herself higher. "It's not scary like before."

That part hit a little deeper. I gave a small smile. "Me too."

Just then, her eyes widened. "Oh my gosh. Look."

I turned to see what she was staring at. A couple — two women, maybe late twenties — were walking along the sidewalk holding hands, laughing quietly between themselves. One of them had short pink hair and a sunflower tattoo on her forearm. The other was wearing sunglasses and a "Cats Against the Patriarchy" T-shirt.

But the real showstopper?

A cat in a pink harness, strutting beside them on a leash like it owned the whole park.

"No. Way," Lily whispered. "That cat is walking a human."

We both just stared as it paused, sat on the sidewalk like a loaf, and refused to move.

"Classic cat," I said.

The pink-haired woman bent down and scratched behind the cat's ears. "Okay, Princess Potato. You win. Ten more seconds."

Lily was enchanted. "Princess Potato?!"

"Best. Name. Ever," I said.

We watched the little parade continue down the path, the women laughing like this was perfectly normal, and honestly? Maybe it was.

Lily turned to me, eyes shining. "I want a leash-cat."

I grinned. "You already have a leash-cat. His name's Sam."

That got the laugh I wanted.

And for a little while longer, we just kept swinging, the summer breeze wrapping around us like a soft promise that maybe things could be okay.

After the cat and her queens disappeared down the path, Lily kept swinging, legs pumping hard like she was trying to launch herself into the clouds.

I slowed down a little, letting the breeze wash over me. It smelled like fresh grass and someone grilling in the distance.

Then, out of nowhere, Lily asked, "Do you know if your baby's a boy or a girl?"

I blinked. My toes scraped the gravel as I let the swing come to a stop.

She was still swinging — not looking at me, not being nosy. Just... asking.

"No," I said softly. "Not yet."

Lily nodded like she understood. "When do you find out?"

"I don't know. Soon, maybe. The doctor said they can usually tell around a certain week."

She slowed her swing, finally dragging her feet on the ground until she was still beside me.

"Do you want a girl or a boy?"

I thought about it.

And I realized... I hadn't let myself think that far ahead.

"I just want them to be okay," I said. "Safe. Healthy."

Lily was quiet for a second, then turned to me. "I think they'll be really lucky."

I smiled, a little caught off guard. "Why's that?"

"Because you're already brave. And you're you," she said simply. "And you've got Mom. And Sam. And me. That's a pretty good team."

I felt my throat get tight, and not in a bad way. In the way that sneaks up when someone says the one thing you didn't realize you needed to hear.

"Thanks," I whispered.

Lily kicked her feet out again, resuming her swing. "I hope it's a girl. But if it's a boy, I'll still love him. And if it's both, that's cool too."

I laughed. "That's not usually how babies work."

She shrugged. "Hey, you never know. They could be like you."

I blinked again, caught between surprise and something that felt like hope.

Yeah. Maybe they could.

Lily laughed a little as she swung. "Since you're gender fluid, doesn't that make you the mommy and the daddy?"

I choked on my own breath and stared at her.

She grinned, proud of herself. "I mean... think about it."

I covered my face with both hands. "Lily."

"What?" she giggled. "It's kinda true!"

I peeked through my fingers, trying not to laugh. "I guess... yeah. Maybe?"

She slowed her swing again. "So what does that make the baby?"

I shrugged. "A miracle. A very confused miracle."

Lily snorted. "We'll just call it 'Baby Fluid' until it's old enough to decide for itself."

"Please don't call it that," I said, groaning. "That sounds like something a car needs."

We both broke into giggles then, full-blown belly laughs that echoed through the empty park.

And for a moment, there was no fear. No past. No pressure.

Just me, Lily, and the idea that maybe — just maybe — it's okay to laugh about the hard stuff once in a while.

Back at home, I was in deep thought.

I sat on the couch, legs tucked under me, staring at nothing in particular — just letting everything swirl around in my head. What Lily said at the park kept replaying. Mommy and daddy. Baby Fluid. It was hilarious, yeah, but also... kind of weirdly comforting. Like maybe I didn't have to fit into a box to be a good parent someday.

Across the room, Lily had other priorities.

"No. You hold still," she muttered, crouched on the floor with a bright purple harness in one hand and a very uncooperative orange tabby in the other.

The cat — who had definitely not signed up for this — let out a pitiful, drawn-out mrrroooowr that sounded like a mix between a foghorn and a threat.

"Come on, Buttons," Lily said, trying again. "We saw Princess Potato at the park. You can be Prince Tater Tot. Just hold still!"

Buttons responded by going limp like a noodle and then flipping into full back-leg bicycle kick mode.

I blinked, coming back to reality just in time to see Lily tumble sideways, harness in hand, hair in her face.

"You're gonna get scratched," I warned, half amused, half serious.

"I will not be defeated by a loaf with legs," Lily declared, dramatically.

Buttons took off down the hall like a furry missile, crashing into Sam's closed door with a thud before skidding out of sight.

I shook my head and smiled.

Somehow, in this weird, loud, messy house... things felt okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But okay.