Backstory

The Corn Thief does not remember the first time it stole. It was too young, and the corn was too close. What it remembers is the feeling: the warm, weighty, absolutely correct sensation of something that was not its own becoming, suddenly and permanently, its own. It has built an entire career on that feeling. The corn was a start. The eggs were a promotion.

It stole the corn. It stole the eggs. It is not sorry. It will never be sorry. Apologies, in the Corn Thief’s professional opinion, are for chickens who plan to be caught, and it has no such plans — it walks straight through your field, helping itself to your bank eggs as it goes, with the unhurried confidence of a bird that has already counted the loot.

If it reaches the door, the eggs are gone for good. Gone where? It does not say. There is a silo somewhere, far from any farm, that the other chickens have learned not to ask about. But there is one mercy written into its heist: kill it before the gate, and half of everything it took comes home. The Corn Thief considers this a fair trade. It is, after all, still ahead.