Horse Camp by Nicole Helget Page B

chicken over, stretching his wings out and combing through his feathers with her fingers. It barely makes a sound. It looks like it might even be enjoying June Bug touching it. Then June Bug stares, close up, at its feet.
    â€œWhat are you doing that for?” I say.
    â€œChecking for bumblefoot, or other diseases you can see with the naked eye.”
    I blush at that. Naked. Suddenly, Pauly’s right next to us, asking questions. “You mean the chickens get sick?” he says.
    â€œOf course they do, stupid,” I say, elbowing him out of the way.
    â€œDo they bawf oh have a cough?” asks Pauly.
    â€œPauly, you’re a real dummy,” I say.
    â€œNo, you’re not, Pauly,” says June Bug. She takes a long strand of hair that came loose from her ponytail and tucks it back behind her ear. “I’ve seen lots of chickens with diseases.”
    â€œHow many?” says Pauly.
    â€œWell, once we had to kill our entire flock—pullorum took hold, and by law you have to get rid of any chicken with pullorum.”
    â€œJeez,” I say. I wonder if pullorum is like leprosy or what. People in the Bible were always getting that and then having to go off by themselves.
    â€œNo,” says Pauly. “I meant how many diseases?”
    â€œI don’t know, dude,” she says. “Lots. There’s quite a few.”
    â€œWhat ahw they called?”
    â€œShut up, Pauly!” I say. “You wouldn’t even understand!”
    â€œWell,” says June Bug, “there’s bumblefoot, fowl pox, rot gut, swollen head syndrome, gray eye, parrot fever, helicopter disease. …”
    â€œWhoa,” says Pauly.
    â€œDifferent strains of egg drop syndrome are some of the most common,” she says. “When your hens lay less and less eggs, you know something’s up.”
    â€œI think Cah-wel might have egg dwop syndwome,” says Pauly.
    â€œRoosters can’t lay eggs, you dipstick!” I shout.
    â€œHe’s just old, that’s why he looks so gaunt,” says June Bug. “My mom says he used to be the king of Stretch’s flock, though. Like probably back in the days when Stretch’s son was still alive.”
    â€œRoland?” I say. “You know about Roland?”
    â€œNaw, not really,” June Bug says. She scratches behind her chicken’s head. I swear, the chicken smiles. “Just that I guess Stretch changed a lot when he died—that’s what my mom says, anyways. He used to be wilder, I think. Grab yours now, Pers,” she says.
    â€œNah,” I say, “let Pauly go next.”
    â€œYou’re afraid to hold ’em, still?”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œWell, pick one up, then.”
    I start windmilling my arms and holding my foot behind my back to stretch my quads.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” asks June Bug.
    â€œStretching, obviously,” I say.
    â€œYou’re just wasting time,” says June Bug. “You must have some issues with being afraid of live animals.”
    â€œHe’s always been pwetty scay-ohd of animals,” says Pauly.
    â€œAt least I’m an American citizen!” I say.
    June Bug glares at me. “Anyway, if you’re done stretching now, it’s your turn,” she says, “unless you’re too scared.”
    â€œI’m not scared of anything,” I say. I walk over to where most of the chickens stand around, pecking at the dirt or just looking bored. I take a good look, moving slowly so they don’t start squawking or jutting their freaky necks or flapping their dusty wings. I look back at June Bug and Pauly, and I see Penny sticking her head in the barn door, spying.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I yell.
    Penny’s head disappears, and you can hear her running away, her shoes mashing gravel. Shaking my head, I turn back to the chickens and find one that looks fat and slow. I crack a couple of knuckles and