Elise and Grant took off with their rental car, saying they wanted to explore the surrounding towns a bit and get to know the area better while they’re here. Lord knows why. They visit so rarely, it shouldn’t matter. But I suppose there are only so many times an outsider can wander Mayweather’s tiny downtown without getting bored.

It's only knowing everyone in town and getting filled in on all the new gossip while we’re out that keeps us locals satisfied.

All I wanted to do with my precious free time was put on some music, maybe have a few glasses of wine, and relax. I was even considering taking a bath. God knows I could use a way to destress after the last few days of trying to convince Elise and Grant that I’m an entirely capable, responsible parent. And that I’m in a relationship with a guy who’s never actually seen me as more than a friend.

But then Mitch showed up asking if I could watch Delilah for a couple hours, because she’s been depressed lately, and he didn’t want to leave her outside in her coop. As if this was a super simple, casual request that made any kind of sense.

When I asked him if chickens could even get depressed, he assured me they could. Then he also admitted that he’s hoping it’s just depression, because otherwise the way she’s been acting lately could mean she’s dying. Which might sound melodramatic, but what you need to understand is that this chicken is old. She’s got to go sometime. Probably sometime soon. And Mitch, though he comes off as a bit nuts, is sane enough to know this.

Of course, this isn’t the first time he’s been worried she might be dying. In fact, it’s happened so many times now that it’s become almost a joke around town. Still, the way Mitch’s eyes watered when he told me this today tugged at my stupid heartstrings, so here I am.

Just please don’t let her die on my watch.

Determined to still enjoy my time off—despite the fact that Delilah is lying in the corner of my living room on a freaking cat bed and watching every move I make with her beady little chicken eyes—I pour myself a glass of wine and get comfortable on the couch, one leg tucked up underneath me. This is a fairly cheap merlot, but it does the trick. I turn on Netflix, knowing I’ll likely spend more time scrolling for something decent to watch than actually watching. Any activity that shuts off my brain is welcome at this point though.