By the time Danny arrived at the library, Ralph was already there, a center table in the reference room staked out and covered with books. Ralph Kurtz was a quiet boy with dirty fingernails. He was also Danny Minton’s best friend. He knew when to stand by him (two boys with sticks) and when to step aside (one girl with blanket). His mother was in an asylum in North Hampton. After she gave birth to Ralph, she’d stopped wearing clothes and started hearing voices. Mr. Kurtz signed her over to the state, and raised Ralph alone at the family gas station.

“Where’s Joey?” Danny asked.

Ralph turned a page of The History of Meat Production. “Periodicals.”

Danny looked over at the racks of newspapers on poles, the magazines with plastic covers. Joey was reading the latest National Geographic. He liked to collect the maps, and would tear them out of issues if the librarian wasn’t looking. When his mother worked the late shift, he’d spread them across the card table in their kitchen and imagine himself going places.

“Look at this,” said Ralph. He pushed the book he was reading across the table toward Danny. On the page was a series of photographs of birds being killed in a factory—hung upside down by their feet from a moving chain, dunked into a vat of boiling water. “Why do they do that?”

“The feathers come off easier.”

“But they’re still alive.”

“They’ve got tiny brains,” Danny said. “My dad says they barely feel it.”

“Gross,” said Joey, coming up behind him. “Is that what it’s like inside the slaughterhouse?”

“I’ve never been,” said Danny. His mother wouldn’t allow it.

Ralph handed each of them a piece of paper. “I’ve prepared a list of topics.”

“I’ll take the dead birds,” said Joey.

When the boys were finished with their report, they went to the Mintons’ farm for lunch. There Mrs. Minton fed them baloney sandwiches. She asked after Ralph’s father, but said nothing to Joey. Danny could tell he was going to get it when the others left.

After eating, the boys went outside and started teasing birds, running along the sides of the fence pretending to have food, the turkeys following back and forth like schools of fish, as if they had been hypnotized.

“They really stink,” Joey said.

Danny nodded, although his nose was plugged and he could not smell them. “It’s their poop.”

“Do they have names?”

“Not really,” said Danny. “We only keep them for about twelve weeks.”

Joey picked up a stick and began to hit the fence with it. The turkeys watched, bobbing their heads up and down together as if they were silently agreeing to one thought.

“Wait,” said Ralph. “Did you hear that?”

Danny sneezed. “I didn’t hear anything.”

Ralph put his fingers on his temples. He closed his eyes. “I am receiving a message from the turkeys.”