Vasile was hiding behind Mrs. Floarea’s well

By 8:00 AM the next morning, Vasile was hiding behind Mrs. Floarea’s well, sweating through his winter coat despite the freezing weather.

His entire future now depended on the digestive track of Chiriaca, a moody, overweight, brown hen with a permanent scowl.

Vasile had spent the night googling "how to de-stress a poultry animal" on his phone. He had pocketed a handful of premium corn kernels soaked in warm water to entice her.

Suddenly, the coop door creaked open. Mrs. Floarea stepped out, wearing three layers of wool headscarves. She marched straight to the nesting boxes like a judge heading into a courtroom. Vasile held his breath.

A few tense seconds passed. Then, Mrs. Floarea screamed.

"VASILE! Get over here!"

Vasile’s heart dropped into his boots. He trotted over, already practicing his best chicken noises, fully prepared to spend the afternoon clucking in a nest of straw.

He peered into the coop. Chiriaca was sitting on her perch, looking smugger than a village mayor after an election. Underneath her was absolutely nothing. Not a single egg.

"I knew it!" Mrs. Floarea yelled, waving her arms. "Psychological trauma! You broke her spirit, Vasile!"

"Wait, Auntie Floarea, look!" Vasile blurted out, pointing frantically to the corner.

Chiriaca hadn't stopped laying eggs because of trauma. She had gone on a stress-induced baking marathon. Tucked away in a secret corner behind the grain sack was a hidden clutch of four massive, pristine eggs. It turned out the midnight scare had jump-started her system like a jumper cable on a dead battery.

Mrs. Floarea stopped yelling. She blinked, looked at the eggs, then looked at Chiriaca, who let out a loud, proud, "Cluck-cluck-CLUCK!"

"Well," Mrs. Floarea muttered, her voice dropping to a disappointed whisper because she had lost her leverage. "It seems your foolishness terrified the eggs right out of her."

Vasile wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. "So... I don't have to cluck?"

Mrs. Floarea grabbed the basket of eggs, looked Vasile dead in the eye, and said, "No. But you still have three more days of firewood to chop. And since Chiriaca clearly responds to high-intensity drama, you’re going to help me clean the pigsty next."

Vasile sighed, picking up his axe. He looked at Chiriaca through the coop window. The chicken gave him a slow, deliberate blink. Vasile could have sworn the bird was mocking him.