Then I saw it.
A boat.
A whole, very wet, very misplaced fishing skiff was now jammed sideways into the broken tree, dripping river water like it was deeply ashamed of its life choices.
“I woke up because of that,” I whispered in horror. “The BOAT.”
I stared at it. It sat crookedly in the branches like it regretted its own existence.
And I… regretted mine.
The bushes rustled. A soft, eerie clucking broke the air.
I turned.
A chicken emerged, not a normal chicken. Not even a moderately disturbed chicken. No, this chicken looked like it had been electrocuted, resurrected, and then haunted by its own ghost. Its feathers stuck out like it had wandered through a storm made of pure chaos, its eyes were too wide. And they were locked on me.
We made eye contact.
Immediate, mutual hatred.
“Don’t,” I warned it.
The chicken took one step. I backed up.
It blinked once.
Then CHARGED.
“NONONO—!”
I dodged, slipped on a fish and nearly broke my spine trying not to die.
The chicken slammed into my shin, flapped directly into my face, and then, with malicious precision, latched onto my bootlace.
“LET. GO.”
It did not.
We tugged.
It tugged harder.
I tugged with the desperation of a man fighting for his life.
“You lightning-fried little DEMON…”
My boot slipped off my foot and went flying. A majestic arc of humiliation landing somewhere in the darkness with a splash.
The chicken, triumphant, screeched into the rain.
I stared at my bare, soggy sock. Then at the chicken and then the sky.
“Why,” I asked the gods, “do you hate me personally?”
Something screamed.
Long.
