Otis liked the hayloft best in the early morning, when the world was still quiet and the sun had only just begun to warm the boards. He was curled beside a bale, his white chin tucked to his chest, pretending he had all the time in the world. Below him, the farm was waking up with soft clucks and a faraway gate creak.
Then Otis’s sleepy amber eyes opened a little wider.
In the strip of light between two hay bales, a line of eggs lay nestled in the straw. Not plain eggs, either. They were shiny and painted in farm colors — red, blue, yellow, green, and more — as bright as toy marbles. Otis lifted his head. Hens did not lay painted eggs. Hens laid eggs that belonged in nests, warm and simple, not lined up like a parade in the hayloft.
He stretched one paw, slow and careful, but before he could touch even one, Lena’s nose twitched at the loft door. “Eggs?” she whispered, and then, louder, “Otis, why are there eggs up here?”
Bram pushed in behind her, his bright eyes fixed on the shiny line. “If they’re not the hens’ eggs, then whose are they?” he asked at once. He sounded ready to make a rule about it right away.
Otis sat up straighter. He wanted his quiet morning back, but now the hayloft was full of staring eyes and bright painted shells. The eggs were real, not a dream, and everyone was looking at him as if he should know what to do. Otis peered down the line of straw and saw that one egg had nudged a little closer to the edge of the bale. If he stayed here, he could keep watching. If he moved, he might find where they had come from before one rolled away or cracked open.
What happens next?
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