Jack had no answer. His crops were gone, replaced by something that shouldn’t exist. He crouched low, listening. Faint, muffled noises stirred inside the shells. His skin prickled.
By then, Bonnie and Mary had joined them. Bonnie’s face drained of color as she whispered, almost to herself, “Eggs?”
The word hung in the air like a curse. And then came the sound again—that eerie cry Jack had heard before—only now louder, rolling across the field like a haunting summons.
Jack pressed his ear to one of the shells. The egg trembled beneath his touch. Cracks spidered across its fragile surface.
His instincts screamed for action. He bolted for the tractor, heart pounding, ready to crush the invaders. But Mary and Giselle dashed forward, shielding the cluster with outstretched arms. Their small bodies stood defiant against the machine.
Jack froze. He could not bring himself to drive forward. The sight of his daughters risking themselves for the eggs shattered his resolve.
With a long exhale, he climbed down. “Well, girls,” he said at last, voice heavy but gentle, “we don’t have a crop anymore. Maybe we can at least save these eggs.”
Their faces lit up with relief and excitement. They clapped and jumped for joy.
But the joy quickly gave way to practicality. How would they protect twenty delicate eggs from the weather?