The man was old and boney and caked in dirt, with an unkempt beard and a colostomy bag. The chicken was red and round and muscular. Both lay unmoving in the driveway; the man’s face driven into the gravel, the chicken folded in his net. We started CPR on the man. We had been running his heart for fifteen minutes when a full woman in her forties appeared at the edge of the scene. She explained that she lived up the street; that she was the owner of the chicken; that she had put out word to her neighbors that her chicken was missing. She said the man must have gone out to catch it. She said he lived in a nearby garage. She said she felt so awful. She asked if this was her fault. I told her the man had a heart condition, that he was not a healthy man; that this would have happened to him sooner or later. This fall. This flight. But this triumph? Exactly what the world asked for in his net, looking up at him. And him, looking forward to a woman’s gratitude. “Oh, Red,” she said, looking down at the chicken. “Can I take her?” I told her I thought that would be fine. The woman untangled Red from the net. Her head swung under her body as she was lifted and carried away.