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You want a piece of me? Go ahead, see me coming and rush into the chicken house, Mean Rooster!

Wait for me in there. You’re so predictable. You think I’m not on to you?

I’ve got your number. I know what you want. You want to STAB ME WITH YOUR STEELY BEAK while I try to collect eggs. Not this time, Mean Rooster.

I don’t even want to go into your stupid old chicken house.

You can have it.

It’s all yours! How odd. You don’t seem to want to be in there, either, unless I’m in there.

Oh, what’s this?

It’s the door between the chicken house and the chicken yard. Not that I’m interested in that or scheming or anything.

I’m walking away. I’m gone. I’m a dot, a vapor trail, a speck on the horizon. No need to keep yourself poised to rush back into the chicken house.

You just go on and do something else and I’ll just– HA!

HAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I got the eggs, I got the eggs!!!!

Too bad, so sad, Mean Rooster. See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya!

Okay, I’m leaving now…..
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"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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