Miss Dottie put down her pruning shears and knelt to meet Junie’s earnest gaze. Her eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, were somber. “Honey,” she began softly, “I never meant to scare you. Clove’s not going anywhere. I was just talking about how she’s getting old and grumpy—like me.” She chuckled, but there was a hint of something deeper in her voice, a longing perhaps, or maybe a bit of regret.
Junie tightened her grip on Clove, her small hands gently stroking the hen’s speckled feathers. “But you said…” Junie’s voice trailed off, her brow furrowed with confusion.
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