The Runt

She’s not moving.

The other chicks scurry around their warm, steel-tub brooder, while one has surrendered to stillness under the heat lamp.

It’s a stark contrast to the lively chirping chorus harmonizing around her. 

I scoop her up with one hand, her feather-weight body no bigger than an avocado, and rush her to Chicken Hospital. 

Chicken Hospital is what I call a shoebox in front of a space heater on the living room floor.

I gently admit the patient. Kiln-dried pine shavings cushion her landing.

I sit cross-legged beside the box and begin my examination: unseeing gaze, shallow breath, stunted growth, profound lethargy. Critical, but stable.

Instinctively, I mix water and honey into a small glass bottle with a dropper top. The patient resists my tincture, but as the sugar weaves with her system, an unmistakable pith of life resurges.

Once she is sufficiently rehydrated, I offer a finely diced hard-boiled egg. The patient accepts. 

She gains strength.

The patient is discharged and returned to the flock.

The next day, I spot her petite figure instantly when the flock gathers at the feeder.

The other chicks’ feathers fill in, scaffolding their growing frames. They readily push her Lilliputian body aside.

I watch her concede to a slow, dehydrated death.

I readmit the patient to Chicken Hospital. She embraces the familiar dwelling, content with a quiet life alone in a shoebox. 

I exhale, searching for the words to remind us both that hiding away only works for so long. That even when the flock is annoying, it’s necessary. That solitude can heal — right up until it starts starving us.

I whisper to her,

You are a mountain of courage.

You were not born to play small.

Take up space.

Eat.

I return her to the flock.

She finds her place.