Hatch Day

Inside the egg, everything was warm and dark and quiet.

Pip liked it in here.

She could hear soft sounds outside — peeps and chirps and something low and rumbly. But in here, it was just her heartbeat. Steady and small.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Then something changed.

A crack appeared above her head. Just a tiny one. A line of light, sharp and white, sliced through the dark.

Pip shut her eyes.

Too bright.

She tucked her head under her wing — her brand-new, still-wet wing — and waited. Maybe the crack would go away.

It did not go away.

More light poured in. The crack got bigger. And the sounds — oh, the sounds! Peeping and cheeping and screeching and SQUAWKING and the rumbly sound got louder and the whole world outside was just SO MUCH.

Pip pressed herself into the bottom of her shell.

"No thank you," she said, very quietly.

But eggs don't last forever.

A big piece of shell fell away, and suddenly cold air rushed in and touched her back. She shivered. Her feathers — all seven of them — stood straight up.

She could see now, even with her eyes half-shut. A nest. Straw everywhere. And faces. So many faces!

Four other chicks stared at her. They were fluffy and dry and bouncing around like they owned the place.

"PEEP!" said the biggest one, right in her ear.

Pip fell over sideways.

The rumbly sound came again, and something enormous and warm and feathery settled over all of them like a blanket. Pip looked up.

Mama.

Mama's eye was big and golden and calm. It blinked once, slow.

That was nice. That one thing was nice.

But then the other chicks started climbing on Pip and pecking at the last bits of her shell and everyone was so loud — so LOUD — and Pip crawled out from under Mama's wing and squeezed herself into the corner of the nest, behind a big clump of straw.

She pulled one piece of straw over her head, like a blanket.

There.

Dark again. Quiet-ish. Almost like the egg.

Pip stayed behind the straw for a long time.

She watched the world through the gaps. She saw her brothers and sisters tumble over each other. She saw Mama bring seeds. She saw a bee fly past — fat and fuzzy and bumbling — and one chick tried to chase it and bonked right into another chick and they both rolled across the nest like two little yellow balls.

Pip almost laughed.

Her beak opened just a tiny bit.

Then a small chick — the smallest one besides Pip — wobbled over to the straw clump. She didn't peep. She didn't squawk. She just sat down next to it.

Quiet.

Pip peeked out.

The small chick looked at her. Blinked once, slow. Just like Mama.

Pip blinked back.

The small chick scooched a little closer. Their fluff touched.

It was warm. Like the egg. But better, because the warm thing had a heartbeat too.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Pip came out from behind the straw.

Not all at once. First one foot. Then her head. Then the rest of her, wobbly and blinking in all that big bright light.

The world was loud. It was SO loud. And bright. And cold in some places and warm in others and there were things moving everywhere.

But the small chick walked next to her, right at her side.

They crossed the nest together — slow, unsteady, bumping into straw. They made it all the way to where Mama was, and Pip felt that big warm feathery blanket settle over her again.

She didn't hide this time.

She just stood there, in the bright loud world, with her friend on one side and Mama above and her heartbeat going strong.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Pip opened her eyes all the way.