Brave is a Feeling, Not a Flinch

Pip’s little chicken heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic woodpecker. He’d run. Oh, how he’d run. The sudden, ear-splitting *BANG!* of Farmer Giles’s newfangled machine had sent him scrambling, his usually sensible chicken brain replaced by a wild, feathered panic. He’d burst through the coop door, a blur of white feathers and terrified clucks, and now he was… somewhere. Not the coop. Definitely not the coop.

The world outside the coop was a vast, bewildering expanse of greens and browns. Every rustle of leaves sounded like a lurking monster, every shadow a gaping maw. He’d already encountered Barnaby, the garden gnome, whose painted-on scowl had seemed to curdle the very air, and Buster, the dog, whose joyous bouncing had nearly sent Pip into orbit. He’d even, in a moment of sheer, unadulterated terror, tried to have a sensible conversation with a dandelion. It hadn’t gone well.

Now, Pip found himself huddled beneath a particularly large rhubarb leaf, his breath coming in shaky gasps. He peeked out, his beady eyes scanning the unfamiliar landscape. He saw Henrietta, the wise old cow, munching contentedly on a patch of clover. She looked so calm, so utterly unfazed by the world. Pip wished he had even a tiny speck of her composure.