The Midnight Chicken Chase

“Get it! Get it, quick!”

An urgent whisper cracked the quiet night air as Cammy darted after the hen in her pajamas, her bare feet squishing in the damp grass. It was well past midnight, and her cousin, Adam, had promised it would be easy to catch the chickens from Old Man Rayburn’s yard. She was starting to feel like he’d lied.

“Shh! Stop yelling!” Adam hissed, crouched behind her, trying to wrangle a rogue rooster that was equally disinterested in being captured.

The plan had seemed simple. Old Man Rayburn’s yard was filled with chickens he let wander at night. Cammy and Adam had wanted to prank their friend Jenna by putting a few “borrowed” hens in her front yard—just a harmless laugh to pay her back for toilet-papering Cammy’s front porch last month. But now, as they stumbled around in the moonlit grass, Cammy felt less like a prankster and more like a full-fledged fool.

With one final lunge, she grabbed at the hen and—got it! Feathers puffed everywhere, and for a moment, she could have sworn the chicken clucked in indignation. She held it tightly, beaming at Adam, who was still empty-handed.

“See? Not so hard."

Adam rolled his eyes. “Alright, but you try grabbing that one,” he pointed to a particularly large and haughty rooster strutting near the coop, its eyes glinting with suspicion in the dim light. Cammy grimaced.

They crept closer, tiptoeing in unison. As they reached out, the rooster bolted, flapping its wings and shrieking loud enough to wake half the town. Cammy and Adam froze, eyes wide, as lights blinked on inside Old Man Rayburn’s house.

“Oh, no,” Adam muttered, grabbing Cammy’s arm. “Run!”

They scrambled toward the road, Cammy still clutching her captured hen, with Adam now frantically waving for her to drop it. They ducked behind a hedge just as Rayburn’s porch light flicked on, illuminating the yard and the scattered flock.

A loud bark erupted from the yard. Cammy’s heart sank as she remembered Rayburn’s dog, Hank—a hefty old mutt with a surprisingly energetic bark. They held their breath, hearing Rayburn’s gruff voice calling out, “Who’s out there? Hank, get ’em!”

In a panic, they darted down the road, ducking into shadows whenever another porch light blinked on. But Cammy, despite her panicked state, couldn’t shake the feeling of soft feathers still clutched under her arm. She’d forgotten to drop the hen.

They finally made it to the old cemetery, breathing heavily, hearts racing. “Did we—did we lose him?” Cammy panted, glancing over her shoulder.

Adam slumped against a gravestone, wiping sweat from his brow. “Yeah, I think so,” he said, a mix of relief and exhaustion in his voice. They looked at each other, and as the adrenaline faded, the absurdity of the situation hit them. Cammy giggled first, then Adam joined in, their laughter echoing in the quiet night.

“So… are you keeping that chicken, or what?” he teased, nodding toward the indignant hen still clutched under her arm.

Cammy burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. “Guess she’s mine now,” she joked, petting the hen, which seemed to have accepted its fate and settled into her arms like a pet cat.

After a few moments, their laughter subsided, and Cammy sighed, glancing back toward the faint glow of Rayburn’s house in the distance. “Think we’ll ever live this one down?”

Adam smirked. “Probably not. But hey, it’s our claim to fame. How many people get chased off a chicken farm at midnight?”

Cammy grinned. “I guess so.”

Just a few seconds later, Cammy’s phone suddenly lit up, buzzing with a text. She squinted at the screen and groaned. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Adam asked, his grin fading.

“It’s Jenna. She says, ‘Heard you had a wild night at Rayburn’s. Did you bring home any souvenirs?’”

Cammy’s stomach dropped as another text came through—this one from her mom: “Why are you and Adam running around Rayburn’s in the middle of the night? He called me to ask about your ‘midnight chicken-wrangling club.’ We’ll talk in the morning.”

Adam’s face fell as he got a similar message from his mom, the expression of dread matching Cammy’s. “Oh, we’re never going to live this down, are we?”

“Nope,” she replied, already imagining the jokes they’d face at school. The whole town would know by sunrise. They’d probably be called “The Chicken Twins” or worse for months.

“Guess we’ll be legends,” Adam mumbled, his face red.

Cammy forced a smile, the kind you make when you know there’s no way out. “At least, if we’re going down, we went down with style.” She patted the disgruntled hen, which now seemed oddly proud to have been part of the fiasco.