Mr. Grant

This is a bad batch of eggs. I've done this every spring for twenty years, and by now I can open a perfect square in the top of an egg, to watch the red trail of a vein bend out toward what will be a wing, or, later, feathers slicked so wet they might as well be fur. Most of these I don't even bother opening. You can tell by the way the yolk thuds on the shell that there's nothing but goo inside.

Some of the newest eggs haven't managed to rot yet. I pass out my photocopies, which explain that with sufficient care one can pour a yolk out of an egg, beating heart and all. As long as no membrane is pierced, the heart may beat until the chick is born. Of course, these children haven't been practicing for twenty years, and one by one the red dots they watch so carefully slow, then stop. Adrenaline will keep hearts going for a little while. I demonstrate to the loudest boys-- that one's going to Stanford-- and they pour on adrenaline, drop after drop, and watch the impossible quiver.

By the end of the unit, if all goes well, each child will have killed six unborn chicks. This year dozens of eggs are rotting in the incubator, and I have to delay the class while I find the few eggs that are still alive. Most of the girls who squealed at the cats in formaldehyde are oblivious to my argument. Still, I keep on searching out unrotted eggs, because every few years a girl draws the right conclusion. To win that debate, killing chicks is only fair: chicks don't have souls.

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