I was upset and pretty dazed for a while. It was raining a lot and I was riding my bike to school
to avoid having to take the bus, and each day when I’d get home, I’d retreat to my room,
lose myself in a novel, and simply forget about collecting eggs.
Mrs. Stueby was the one who got me back on schedule.
She called to say she’d read about the tree in the paper and was sorry about everything that had happened,
but it had been some time now and she missed her eggs and was worried that my hens might quit laying.
Distress can push a bird straight into a molting, and we wouldn’t want that!
Feathers everywhere and not an egg in sight. I’m quite allergic to the feathers myself or I’d probably have a flock of my own, but never you mind.
You just bring ’em over when you’re up to it. All’s I wanted was to check in and let you know how sorry I was about the tree.
And your dog, too. Your mother mentioned he passed away.”
So I got back to work. I cleared away the eggs I’d neglected and got back into my routine of collecting and cleaning.
And one morning when I had enough, I made the rounds. First Mrs. Stueby, then Mrs. Helms, and finally the Loskis.
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