Miniscule blades of hay drifted through the air, mingling with dust motes. Sweat seeped through my skin. My muscles strained to lift, and I wiped my brow.
“We haven’t started unloading the hay wagon yet, and I’m already covered in sweat,” I said. The wisp of a breeze outside barely stirred through the barn.
Martina, Sandy, her husband, and I moved old hay bales aside to create space for our new hay delivery. I dreamed of windows in the barn, as I examined my sticky shirt. I lifted and moved a bale, and then turned to grab another.
“Lucy!” Martina screamed.
“What? Where?” I asked, frantic.
Martina lifted the little chicken from behind a hay bale, revealing a small, perfect, pink egg.
The chicken’s comb lay shriveled on her forehead, and she made no sound. She didn’t fight when I pulled her from Martina’s arms. We rushed to the tack room and I filled up containers with food and water. Lucy drank deeply, over and over.
I hugged Martina, and we grinned.