“Unraveling Secrets: What Lies Beneath in Youssef Biaz’s ‘Atlas Fledgling’?”
Two days earlier, I had held four chicks in their cardboard box, stunned that Baba let me accept them from the grinning farmer.
“You’re sure you’ll take care of them?” Baba dropped to one knee to meet me at eye level. I wrapped my fingers around the bottom of the box for a firmer grip. I nodded. “Alright, then,” Baba said. The farmer laughed, pleased to make use of the leftover runts.
The second chick fell down the stairs. A flap of their box had cracked off, and this eager one managed to push its way over the torn lip. It didn’t go far before tumbling off the edge of the hardwood floor, careening step by step into a spattering of feather and flesh. To bury it, I had to scoop it into a dustpan. Then winter came and the third died of exposure. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. That morning I found it curled in a corner, its eyes were the color of skim milk. I thought it had died to spite me.
