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Chapter Five

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           Dodging the popcorn on the floor, Wyatt jumped out of his chair and ran to the door. It really was her—Roberta!—right there on the front porch, looking furious. In fact, she was hopping. Hopping mad.             “Roberta!” he said, holding out one polka-dotted hand. “Stay away from me! You gave me the pox!”             Wyatt was about to turn away when a movement on the porch caught his eye. In the glow of the porch light he saw a tuft of shaggy fur and a wisp of whiskers. He saw massive paws climbing the porch steps.             He saw Roberta freeze in fear.             And then he heard the howl from the dog climbing the stairs, the howl from the dog inching closer and closer to Roberta. Big sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight.             “Roberta!” Wyatt yelled. Then he yanked open the door, grabbed the chicken and pulled her inside, slamming the door shut. He locked it, too, for good measure.             In Wyatt’s hands, Roberta stiffe
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Chapter Four

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           It must seem comfortable and easy, life in a cozy roost. With plenty of good feed and all of her family close by—very close by, Roberta thought to herself, wiggling her backside in hopes of scooting out just a little more room. There were her cousins Marilla, Anne, and Diana all snuggled in to her left, and her cousins Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy all flocked together to her right. All snoring.             Yes. Roberta sighed, as she did every night. Chickens can—and do­­­ —snore. In fact, snoring chickens were one of the major trials of Roberta’s life.               She had shelter from the rain and plenty of sunshine, enough room to stretch her legs and run when her soul just needed to move. She had a nice warm lamp—when she could get the pesky baby chicks out of the way—and all the clean water she could drink, and she even had the nice boy next door, who sometimes brought handfuls of shiny things for her to peck. What more could any chicken want?             Ju
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Chapter Three

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             Wyatt could: tie all of his bedsheets and clothes into one long rope, use that rope to shimmy down the side of his house, and escape into the night? He’d seen it done in a movie once.             No. He wasn’t very good at tying knots, and he was afraid of heights. And the dark (but only a little). Plus, he wasn’t allowed outside after nine PM.             Or maybe he could: take some paint and paint over his entire body, spots and all. “The spots are gone!” he’d tell his mom and Dr. Mahoney. “It’s a miracle cure!” A miracle cure that just happened to turn him neon purple. Amazing!             Ugh. No . What if it rained? Ever since the front door mural incident, his mom only let him use washable paint. Who would believe in a miracle cure that washed away in bad weather? And he’d definitely have to take another baking soda bath. He was getting pretty sick of those.             Or maybe he could: take every single one of his Legos and build himself a
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Chapter Two

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           So, it turned out that Dr. Mahoney meant Wyatt had to stay home until he felt better and the spots were gone. “No school, no sports, no visitors, not one single step beyond your front gate,” she explained. That was quarantine.             And no cold pizza and green beans for lunch on Tuesdays, Wyatt added in his mind. Nobody laughing at my nail polish. Not having to worry about the big kids taking over the jungle gym at recess. Not having to clean up all the broken crayons when somebody dropped the big box and they rolled all over the classroom. That was also quarantine. And at first, it was awesome .             Even though he wasn’t feeling very hungry, he could eat rocky road ice cream mixed with granola, crushed-up pretzel dust, and mushy banana bits for breakfast at noon while hanging upside down on the couch and playing Cereal Crunch on his tablet, and no one even blinked. Except for Wyatt, when ice cream dripped into his eyes.               He could s
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Chapter One

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     In the darkness of night, a chicken appeared at the back door. Using her beak, she rapped on the glass—rap, rap, rap. She ruffled her feathers. And in a voice gruff with fury, she said, “I’ve come for my revenge.”      It all started about a week ago, when Wyatt Griffin’s skin began to turn polka-dotted. Pre-dot, Wyatt’s skin had always been pretty average. Normal. Brownish, usually a scraped knee or two, paint or dirt etched into the lines of his palms, a permanent-marker tattoo started and abandoned on his forearm. Sometimes he painted his nails, and if he wasn’t careful, it took awhile for any misplaced polish to flake off of his fingers.      But when he woke up on Sunday morning, his skin was no longer normal. Not at all. He pulled off his pajama shirt and there they were: three red dots, right in the middle of his chest.      “What’s that?” he wondered, touching each dot. Then he shrugged and pulled on his best tie-dye t-shirt. Maybe later he’d get a marker and con
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