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I dip my fingers into the bucket of grain and pull out a handful. The chickens know it’s feeding time because they’ve started to circle my feet, fighting to get near the bucket. I throw the grain into the air, spreading it as wide as possible. There’s a cloud of feathers as they scramble to get fed, selfishly barging past each other
Survival.
Maggie’s right. No matter what the species, no matter how strong, how significant, we all do it. Even me. Why else would I be here?
It’s been picking with rain for most of the week, but I’d still rather be out here, damp and cold, in the mud and s**t, than inside the caravan—still living with Katrina and her oaf of a husband.
“Spread it out more evenly,” Wesley says from the behind the chicken fence. “Make sure the little one’s get some grain,
