Red draws a border on the dust brown road. The farmland around us picked and sawed, done for now. The glow of the car’s tail illuminates my sin and I know I can save it. No one is coming for as long as my naked eyes search, the ground cool solid against these burning knees. I lift the dying chicken and wrap it in my arms, feathers matted, ripped, bent back awkward, feeling its heat drift, slide into mine, chest struggling. My fingers soak crimson and I know now that I can’t go back. I could save it, I say to the no one on the road. I wrap it in my arms and rock it like a child, back forth left right, whispering things like sorry and don’t look back as the wind forms clouds on the horizon. I can’t let go. I watch it lose its sound, its weight of consequence, and I hold on. Wrapped in my shirt, I carry it in my trunk for miles and miles, a tiny gravesite. I carry it home.