I’m in a clearing by a river and a small settlement of permanently sited caravans. I am in search of an egg, specifically for its shell, in service of some kind of ritual of sexual gratification.

I approach a chicken coup beside one of the caravans. I fumble about and extract an egg. Walking away, I worry that perhaps a chick is waiting to hatch, and that the little boy and his mother in the caravan have been tending the egg, patiently awaiting the new arrival.

I crack the egg to obtain what I need, and discover there is indeed a creature wriggling inside. I debate how to dispose of the remains, mindful of causing the chick harm or incriminating myself. At length, frustrated, I piff it into the river. My nonchalance quickly shifts to shame, for the killing, and for the imminent broken spirit of the little boy as he discovers his innocent, life-tending project not only unsuccessful but wilfully aborted by some unknowable force.

A radio news transmission crackles in the air, reporting on the stolen egg. The egg was, in fact, part of the mother’s fertility treatment. There was no chick; the egg was carrying the woman’s foetus. A sibling to her son.

I look back to the caravan. The boy and his mother stand huddled together, framed by the glowing window, tenderly sharing the anticipation of an emergence they are yet to discover has been extinguished.

25 February 2026