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“Should I put Flew Bacca in with the other chickens?”
“No, I need to take off her diaper before I put her out with the others.”
She gives me a defiant look at the mention of her chicken’s diaper, like she expects me to laugh at her. A month ago, I might have, but after meeting Trinity the first time, I did some research about therapy chickens. So I know that diapering them is common.
And no, I don’t mention any of that because I am all too aware of how obsessed it makes me sound.
So instead, I nod and wait as Trinity unlocks her door. I’m about to hand over her bag and her chicken and force myself to walk away, when an alert comes through on my phone. It’s not the normal shitty-Texas-weather alert I’ve been getting all afternoon. It’s a tornado watch alert.
Trinity gets one at the same time. She absentmindedly takes the pet carrier from me as she scans the alert for more information. Since she’s not asking me to leave, I follow her in, taking in her apartment.
Just to be clear, the term ‘apartment’ is generous. It’s barely bigger than a dorm room, with a kitchenette along one wall, a bed on the opposite wall, and a freestanding garment rack acting as the divider between the “bedroom” and the living space. There’s a single door that I assume leads to the bathroom.
It’s surprisingly tidy. Trinity doesn’t strike me as a minimalist, so I’m not sure if she’s forced to be one because her space is so small or because she’s a broke grad student. Or both.
In the time it’s taken me to survey her apartment (not long), she’s been scurrying around, clearly going into speed run mode. She’s dragged out some sort of popup animal pen and set it up in her living room, set Flew Bacca loose in it, and is out the door to collect the other two hens when I stop her.
“You can’t stay here when there’s a tornado watch.”
“Nonsense.” The two chickens bustle over to her as she leans over the side of their enclosure. She picks one up and hands her to me, before grabbing the other one. “We’ll be fine. But you probably need to get home if you don’t want to be out in this.”
I follow her back inside. “I don’t want to be out in this. But I’m not going to leave you here during a tornado watch.”
She puts her chicken down into the animal pen and then turns back to me, hands out and open so I can hand over the other hen. I don’t hand over the bird.
“Look, you say you’re safe during a frat party next door. Fine. I’ll believe you. You’re an adult. But do you know what your apartment doesn’t have?”
She props her hands on her hips and glares at me, wordlessly.
“Interior walls.”
She makes a huffing noise of annoyance. “Your point?”
I hold the hen close to my chest, like I’ve been holding chickens my whole life. Spoiler alert: I haven’t, but I am very good at bluffing. “If a tornado does hit, you and the birds have nowhere safe to go.”
“I’m sure I could go up to Chad’s house.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you could. But they’re having a party. Are you really going to bring your birds over there during a rager?”
“I—” She cuts herself off and snaps her mouth closed. “Okay, so what do you recommend, genius? I don’t have any family in town. My sister used to live just down the road, but she just moved. And frankly, I don’t know if her apartment would have been any safer.”
She doesn’t mention the possibility of going to her boyfriend’s, maybe because he still hasn’t texted her back from several hours ago. Or maybe for some other reason. Either way, I seriously want to punch the guy. Which makes it easier to ignore the twinge of guilt I feel when I hear the pang of loneliness when she mentions her sister. After all, it’s my fault her sister is so far away.
“Obviously, I’m recommending you come to my place.”
“Oh.” She frowns like that hadn’t occurred to her at all.
“As long as you’d feel comfortable with that,” I add on quickly, as it occurs to me that that might be why she looks so surprised. After all, as far as she’s concerned, we barely know one another. She doesn’t know that I’ve developed a near-stalker-like fascination with her. And mentioning it probably wouldn’t help matters. “Look, you can let someone else know where you’ll be. Or whatever makes you comfortable. Or I could put you up in a hotel. I just don’t want you here in this weather.”
“I’m not—” She breaks off and snaps her mouth closed, like she’s confused by the concept. Then she sighs. “But that still doesn’t solve the problem of my birds. I’m not leaving without them.”
“Obviously. Of course they’ll come, too.”
The look she gives me says it all.
When you’re a lawyer, you get pretty used to being the butt of bad jokes and angry rants. You don’t get many opportunities to feel like a hero.
Who knew that’s what I was missing in my life.
