The morning sun rises over Tweedy's Farm, casting long shadows across the chicken coop. You wake up to the familiar sound of clucking and wing-flapping as your fellow chickens start their day. Through the wire fencing, you can see Mr. Tweedy walking across the yard, his pitchfork slung over one shoulder and an unusual spring in his step.

"Something's different today," whispers Ginger, her green eyes scanning the farm nervously. "I saw Mrs. Tweedy ordering crates of pastry mix yesterday."

Bunty snorts, laying another perfect egg. "Always something with you, Ginger. Can't we just have one normal day without some escape fantasy?"

From the corner, Babs looks up from her knitting, her blue comb drooping with concern. "Do you think... do you think they're going to stop wanting eggs?"

A chill runs through you as Mac adjusts her glasses, already calculating. "If they're not wanting eggs anymore, what could they possibly want from us instead?"

The question hangs in the air like a dark cloud. You know in your bones that something terrible is coming to Tweedy's Farm, and time is running out to discover what it is and find a way to escape.