Judith would beg to differ. She’s as elegant and stupid as a one-week-old poultry could be. I hold out a palm decorated with dried-up mealworms and click my tongue at her as she picks her way around her crate-mates, sidestepping Carla’s recent wet mess and Maria’s outstretched legs. I wait for her, hand steady and patient, and soon she gobbles up the worms.

It’s a small accomplishment, but it’s taken me days of diligent patience to get this far and I silently cheer to myself.

“Ooh, pretty girl. Who’s gorgeous? You’re gorgeous. Judith is a star. A queen among mortals, aren’t you?” I coo into the dimly lit workspace. Seeing that my hand is empty, Judith ruffles her down with an adorable little shake and skips back to huddle under the heat lamp.

The room fills with the yellow light of early evening and the stocky figure of my dad lumbers down the steps toward me. He pulls a chair over to where I’m on the cold concrete floor.

“What are you doing, Shelby?”

“Oh, you know,” I say with a casual shrug. “Night out with my ladies.”

He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his thick salt-and-pepper mustache twitches. I’m not kidding, though. I stopped working an hour ago, at least, and have no plans to leave. I could stare at these little balls of downy fluff and cuteness all night and I just might do it. So what if I’m tired? Live a little, Springfield.

If only TMZ could see me now.

“I can’t believe you bought more.”

“You mean, because they’re so amazing?”

He snorts.

“Or because you really, really appreciate all the quality free-range eggs you get for nothing?”

He chuckles low. “Jazz does love your eggs. Insists they make her baking taste better.”

“Happy chickens, happy eggs,” I say, scooping Betty, a spotted dark-feathered beauty, into my hands and cupping her close to my chest so I can stroke the top of her head.

“Listen, I came by to warn you. While we were wrapping for the day, Cameron got a call from Lyle. He’s in town. Well, in Le Croix, anyway.”

I purse my lips, not stopping my cuddling.

“I figured he couldn’t stay away for long,” I say eventually.

“I didn’t think producers were really involved in the day-to-day filming.”

I shake my head, replacing Betty with the others. “They aren’t, as far as I know. But Lyle’s not the executive producer, he’s the showrunner. It’s complicated, but basically, he’s the go-between for us and Hollywood. So, it’s not that weird for him to be in Michigan, unfortunately. He’s expected to turn up on-site before things get rolling and meet with the cast and crew and locals.”

My dad sighs, rubbing at his mustache, and looks uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Dad. What’s on your mind?”