With permission, then, Fever bends down to the bird. It's still a little nervewracking - what if she holds them wrong, and they want to get away from her? - but the chicken is placid, feathered and quiet, and scooping her up feels like no more effort than picking up a pillow. Warm, soft, and weighing so little she can be supported on one arm alone, while the other cautiously pets her.

It's okay. It's actually okay. Nothing's happening, no twitches in her hands, no shrieking thoughts, nothing beyond her and the moment. Something fragile in her hands, and all she feels pulled to do is to stroke soft feathers while the bird chooses to remain. Incredible. So this is what it's like.