I’m Ginger, and I’ve been planning escapes since I was a chick. Every night, I try something new—tunnels, disguises, distractions. Every time, I fail. The fence is too high, the dogs too fast, Mrs Tweedy too cruel.

Then last night, something fell from the sky. A rooster. American. He calls himself Rocky Rhodes. Says he flew over the fence. We patched his wing, hid him in the coop. Now, the whole flock is whispering—maybe he can teach us to fly.

But I’ve seen the delivery truck. The crates. The words on the side: ‘Automatic Pie Machine – Do Not Tip.’

Mrs Tweedy’s done with eggs. She wants meat.

I corner Rocky in the hayloft. ‘You’re going to teach us to fly,’ I say. ‘Or I turn you in.’

He smirks. ‘You really think you can fly?’

‘I think we’ll die if we don’t.’

He looks at me—really looks—and for a second, I see doubt in his eyes.

What do I do next?