It had been a crisp blue autumn morning when, around 11:30 a.m., a single rain cloud stalled over the farm of Gilbert Covey. Covey stood amid a cluster of small outbuildings. “Starting to sprinkle a little bit,” he said. Drops slowly began to pelt the cement slab where Covey stood; thwick…thwick, one here, one there, mixing with the many spots of fresh blood that already dotted the concrete.
Covey opened the door onto one of the nearby sheds. Inside, the floor was covered with straw. The elderly farmer entered. Dozens of white chickens with red combs scrambled in every direction. Covey, bending at the waist, shuffled undecidedly behind first one scurrying bird, then another.
“All right,” he said. “Who’s next?”
