The next morning dawned bright and early— too early, in Justin's opinion. A rooster named Kevin (he'd learned that name through trial, error, and one surprisingly articulate cluck) had decided that 5:12 a.m. was the perfect time to perform his daily screeching opera.
Justin groaned as he sat up on the small guest bed, his hair a tangle of half-curls and exhaustion. Riya was already gone, a note on the pillow in neat, sleepy scrawl: Mum dragged me into garden duty. You're on chicken patrol. Good luck. Try not to die.
"Great," he muttered, stretching and rubbing at his face. "I've survived ambushes, stakeouts, and armed chases, but my end will come at the beak of a hen."
By the time he pulled on borrowed boots two sizes too big and stepped outside, the air was filled with morning sounds—clucks, chirps, a distant bleat, and someone yelling "No, not the hose again!" in the direction of the greenhouse.
Michael was already out front, pitchfork in hand, looking like some sort of wilderness dad superhero. The man didn't seem to sweat—he just glowed, like a centered, earth-powered monk with a background in compost philosophy.
"You're late," Michael said without looking up.
"I didn't get a wake-up call from the goat," Justin replied dryly.
"That's because she liked you. The rooster, however…"
As if on cue, Kevin the rooster strutted into view like he owned the property, glaring at Justin like he owed him rent.
Michael gestured toward the coop. "Feed them, collect eggs. Don't let Bonnie trick you into opening the gate. She's smarter than she looks."
"I feel like I should've signed a liability waiver before coming here."
"Too late now. Welcome to farm life."
Justin sighed and marched toward the coop, metal feed pail in hand. As he approached, a battalion of chickens lined up at the wire fence like they were awaiting his failure. He opened the gate cautiously, only to be nearly tackled by a blur of feathers and rage.
"Bonnie!" he yelped, spinning and barely avoiding her beak of doom. "Back, Satan with wings!"
Michael laughed from his spot by the compost heap. "Told you."
Half an hour later, Justin stumbled back toward the house with a basket of eggs, a scratch on his arm, and his pride slightly dented.
Michael followed with a serene expression and a tomato tucked in his shirt pocket like a prize.
---
Inside the cottage, the smell of cinnamon and fresh bread had filled every room.
Riya stood barefoot in the kitchen, apron tied sloppily around her waist as she stirred something in a bowl. Her mum, on the other hand, looked intensely focused as she piped whipped cream onto a tower of pancakes like she was decorating a wedding cake.
"You're overdoing it," Riya said, watching the whipped cream spiral into a mountain.
Her mum didn't look up. "You don't underdo breakfast when someone's had their first sleep in months. Pancakes are a love language."
"I thought yours was passive-aggressive dishwashing."
Her mum grinned. "That's number two."
They worked in comfortable rhythm, stealing bites from the fruit bowl and humming under their breath to the record player spinning an old jazz tune in the corner.
"So," her mum said casually, "did you and Mr. Broody share a bed last night or just existential vulnerability and romantic tension?"
Riya dropped a spoon. "Mum!"
"What? I'm just asking if there was hand-holding or hand-holding, if you catch my drift."
"There was sleep. Just sleep."
Her mum raised a brow, clearly unconvinced but also clearly amused. "Well, look at you. All grown up, protecting dangerous men and not even kissing them before dawn."
Riya groaned. "Can we not make this weird?"
"You dragged a mafia-adjacent heartthrob into my organic herb sanctuary. I get at least one embarrassing conversation."
Riya laughed in spite of herself and set the plates on the table. "Fine. Just don't start bringing up old high school stories."
"Oh, you mean like the time I caught you sketching his face in your math notebook and writing 'Mrs. Riya Wright' in cursive?"
"Mum!"
But her protest was drowned out by the front door opening, and two very muddy, slightly traumatized men walking in. Justin held up the egg basket like a peace offering. "I bring tribute. Please tell me you have coffee."
Riya's mum handed him a steaming mug. "You survived Bonnie. You've earned it."
Justin took a sip and sighed like he'd just touched the face of God. "I have stared into the abyss, and it had feathers."
Michael dropped a sack of potatoes on the counter and plucked the tomato from his pocket, placing it ceremoniously on the table. "I grew this. His name is Gary."
Everyone paused.
Riya whispered, "Are we naming produce now?"
Michael just sipped his tea with the satisfied air of a man who had, in fact, named his tomato and dared anyone to question him.
They all gathered at the table—plates of pancakes, fruit, eggs, and toast spread between them. The laughter came easily, the food even more so. Justin found himself smiling without even realizing it, letting the comfort of the moment seep into the cracks of his usually guarded self.
It wasn't just a meal. It was a moment of peace. And in their world, those were rare.
After breakfast, the sun was high in the sky, and the quiet of the morning settled like a blanket over the farm. The laughter and easy conversation from the meal had faded, replaced by the quiet hum of birds and the occasional cluck from the chickens. Justin leaned back in his chair for a moment, savoring the last sip of coffee, before standing up with a stretch.
"Alright, farm boy duty calls," Justin said, making his way to the door.
Riya's mum handed him a bag of granola bars. "For the road. You'll need energy for whatever Michael's planning today. You look like someone who needs to be prepared."
"Good call," Justin said with a grin, grabbing the bag. "Last time, I almost got trapped in the tomato patch by a particularly enthusiastic vine."
"Michael's gardening techniques are... unorthodox," Riya said, raising an eyebrow.
"Unorthodox doesn't even begin to cover it," Justin muttered under his breath, following Michael out the door.
The moment they stepped outside, Michael tossed Justin a spade. "You ready to get your hands dirty again?"
Justin caught it with a grin. "I've been ready since sunrise. Just point me at the next disaster."
Michael clapped him on the back. "Well, if you're game, we need to get these new raised beds prepped for the next planting season. The soil's a bit tricky in that corner by the barn."
"Tricky soil, check. What else?"
"Some weeding, some tilling, and then maybe we can talk about the fence. You didn't think the chickens could escape forever, did you?"
"Wait—escape?!" Justin exclaimed, narrowing his eyes. "You're not telling me those little hellions actually have escape plans?"
Michael chuckled darkly. "They're smarter than you think."
Justin stared back at him, eyes wide. "I am legitimately afraid now. Are we building a chicken militia?"
Michael only winked. "That's for me to know."
The two of them made their way to the raised beds, where Michael immediately got to work on tilling the soil with a precision that made Justin's earlier attempts seem downright sloppy. Justin, however, dug in with a determined enthusiasm, as though the earth itself was offering a challenge to his skills.
The air was warm, the task simple but satisfying. Time seemed to slow as Justin fell into the rhythm of digging and pulling weeds, his muscles beginning to ache pleasantly from the effort. Every now and then, he glanced over at Michael, who appeared to be at one with the soil, a living, breathing garden guru.
"Got a whole ecosystem going here, huh?" Justin commented after a while.
Michael grunted in acknowledgment, wiping sweat from his brow. "You wouldn't believe how much goes into keeping it all running smoothly. It's like a giant puzzle."
"I'll take your word for it," Justin said, squatting down to yank another stubborn weed from the earth. "Though, I feel like I'm slowly losing my battle with the weeds."
"That's the fight we all lose in the end. It's just about how long you can keep it under control." Michael's gaze drifted over to the barn. "A lot of the old-timers say farming's like life in that way. It's messy, unpredictable, and sometimes it seems like it's winning. But if you keep at it, it'll reward you eventually."
Justin considered that for a moment. "Yeah, well, life's a bit like that, too. Messy. No one ever really warns you about the weeds."
"Guess they should," Michael said with a wry smile. "The trick is knowing when to let go and when to fight."
They worked in silence for a while, until Justin felt the weight of the day press down on him, the quiet solitude of the farm almost too peaceful, too easy. He reached for another handful of soil, feeling the weight of everything that had brought him here. And yet, in this moment, it was as if the tension of the world had loosened its grip on him, just a little.
It wasn't long before Michael stood up and stretched. "Alright, time for a break. Grab a seat; I'll grab the water jug."
Justin wiped his hands on his pants and slumped down on a nearby crate, letting the cool breeze settle over his skin.
Michael disappeared around the side of the barn and returned moments later with a jug of water and two mugs. "You know," he said casually, handing over the water, "this place has a way of stripping everything down to basics. It's like all the layers fall away."
Justin nodded, taking a long drink of the cool water. "Yeah, I feel that. It's weirdly peaceful."
"Peaceful but busy," Michael added. "The trick is balancing it out. Like I said, it's like life. If you don't keep your head in it, you'll get lost in the weeds."
Justin smiled at that, amused by the farmer's life philosophy. "You know, I think I'd have a hard time getting used to this. But in a weird way, it's... it's nice. Calm."
Michael looked at him, his eyes narrowing just slightly, as if weighing something in his mind. "You know," he said slowly, "sometimes, calm's a rare thing. A lot of people never really get a chance to experience it."
Justin glanced up at him, curious. "What do you mean by that?"
Michael hesitated before answering. "You spend enough time running from things—danger, the past, whatever else—and you forget what it feels like to just... be. Like you're waiting for something to come crashing down any minute. You start assuming the next shoe's gonna drop."
Justin's throat tightened at the unspoken truth of it. He didn't respond immediately, just let the weight of those words settle between them. It was something he knew all too well.
The moment was interrupted by the sound of Riya's voice calling from the house.
"Hey, you two! We need your help! The tomatoes are at it again!"
Justin raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. "Is this about the tomatoes again?"
"Michael," she called, her voice tinged with a laugh, "your plants are staging a revolt!"
Michael groaned, standing up. "See? I told you. This farm's just one big battle. I was hoping you'd take it easy today."
Justin shot him a playful look. "I should've known better. Alright, what's going on with your rebellious tomatoes?"
Michael just chuckled and shook his head. "You'll see. Come on, let's go save the tomatoes."
As they rounded the corner toward the greenhouse, Justin squinted, expecting to see vines flailing dramatically or maybe some mutant heirloom varietals plotting an uprising. Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks.
There, in a shady patch of yard just outside the garden beds, was a group of plump, red-feathered chickens. They moved with uncanny coordination, scratching and pecking like a single chaotic organism—and all of them looked vaguely pissed off.
"Those... are chickens," Justin said flatly, staring.
"Tomatoes," Michael corrected. "That's what I call them. On account of their color, attitude, and tendency to show up exactly where they're not supposed to be."
Riya was standing nearby, holding a rake like a medieval weapon. "They broke out of the coop again. Kevin's on lookout, Bonnie's leading the charge, and the rest of them are making a mess of the compost pile."
"I thought Kevin was the rooster."
"He is," she said. "He's also the general. Don't look him in the eye."
Justin blinked. "We're living in a feathery dictatorship."
"Pretty much," Michael agreed. "These little rebels have figured out the weak spot in the fence. Again. They're after the worm bin. Every time."
Riya sighed and pointed to a particularly determined hen perched on top of the compost lid. "That one's Donna. She's got a vendetta."
Justin narrowed his eyes. "You named all of them?"
"They earned it," Riya said.
"Tomatoes, Kevin, Bonnie, Donna," Justin muttered. "This is not what I signed up for when I agreed to help with farm chores. I thought I was getting, like, therapeutic soil time. Not chicken espionage."
"Farm life doesn't pull punches," Michael said, cracking his knuckles. "Alright. Plan is: Riya herds from the left, I block off the garden bed, and Justin—you're the bait."
Justin blinked. "The what now?"
"Bait," Riya said sweetly, already moving to the side. "They like you. Or rather, they enjoy chasing you."
"This is how I die," Justin mumbled, eyeing the chickens with wariness. "Death by poultry."
He stepped forward slowly, arms out, crouching slightly. The chickens froze like a gang caught mid-heist. Kevin clucked a warning. Bonnie ruffled her feathers. Donna narrowed her beady eyes.
Justin took another step.
And chaos erupted.
The tomatoes surged forward, an unstoppable tide of flapping wings and furious pecking. Justin bolted.
"Okay! It's happening! They're coming for me!"
"Keep them distracted!" Michael yelled, running toward the gate.
Justin darted around a wheelbarrow, dodged a rake, and leapt over a hose like he was back on a tactical course. He made the mistake of glancing back and saw Donna gaining on him, her tiny feet moving at terrifying speed.
"She's faster than she looks!"
Riya was laughing now, trying to redirect the herd toward the coop while Michael opened the gate and waved them in like an air traffic controller. "Come on, chickens! Go to your home! There's mealworms in there!"
One by one, the feathered rebels veered off course and charged into the coop. All except Donna, who made one final lunge at Justin's ankle before flapping dramatically and retreating.
Panting, Justin staggered back toward the others, hands on his knees. "I want it on record," he gasped, "that I just survived a chicken-led coup."
Michael clapped him on the shoulder. "They respect you now. You've earned your stripes."
"They can keep their respect," Justin muttered. "I just want my ankles intact."
Riya grinned and handed him a mason jar of lemonade. "You handled it like a pro."
Justin took a long sip and looked at her. "Your mom ever consider running this place as a bootcamp for ex-mobsters? Might be therapeutic. Traumatizing, but therapeutic."
Riya laughed. "I'll pitch the idea."
As the chickens settled back into their coop and the farm returned to a relative calm, Justin sank onto a bale of hay, drained, scratched, and mildly humiliated—but oddly content.
And as Michael walked off toward the barn muttering something about reinforcing the perimeter before nightfall, Justin looked up at the bright blue sky and sighed.
"I used to think I knew what danger looked like," he said aloud. "Turns out, it clucks and answers to the name Donna."
From inside the coop, a single, proud cluck rang out.
Of course it was Donna.