"You'll see." Bob took two clean dish towels, draped them around the pot and carried it over to the formica kitchen table. In the process, he managed to dip both towels in the mixture and burn his already sliced thumb. One plastic handle of the pot was still smoldering, from being too near the fire, but none of these things seemed to have the slightest effect on him. He put the pot down in the middle of the table and stared at it, chin in hand. Bonnie plopped down opposite him, put her chin in her hands and asked, "We _have_ to drink that stuff?" "Yup." "Who has to drink it first?" Bob made no sign of having heard. "I thought so," said Bonnie. Still no comment. "What if it kills me?" Bobby spoke by raising his whole head and keeping his jaw stationary in his hands. "How can it hurt you? There's nothing but pure food in there." Bonnie also sat and stared. "How much of that stuff do I have to drink?" "Just a little bit. Stick one finger in it and lick it off." Bonnie pointed a cautious finger at the tarry-looking brew and slowly immersed it, until it barely covered the nail. "Is that enough?" "Plenty," said Bob in a judicious tone. Bonnie took her finger out of the pot and stared at it for a moment. "What if I get sick?" "You can't get sick. There's aspirin and vitamins in it, too." Bonnie sighed and wrinkled her nose. "Well, here goes," she said. She licked off a little bit. Bob watched her with his television version of a scientific look. "How do you feel?" he inquired. Bonnie answered, "It's not so bad, once it goes down. You can taste the chocolate graham cracker." Bonnie was really enjoying the attention. "Hey," she said, "I'm starting to get a funny feeling in my--" and, before she could finish the sentence, there was a loud _pop_. Bob's face registered extreme disappointment. She sat quite still for a moment and then said, "What happened?" "You've turned into a chicken." * * * * * The little bird lifted its wings and looked down at itself. "How come I'm a chicken, Bob?" it said, cocking its head to one side and staring at him with its left eye. "Ah, nuts," he explained. "I expected you to be more of a pigeon thing." Bob mulled over the ingredients of his stew to see what went wrong. The chicken hopped around the chair on one leg, flapped its wings experimentally and found itself on the kitchen table. It walked to the far corner and peered into a small mirror that hung on the side of the sink cabinet. "I'm a pretty ugly chicken, boy," it said. It inspected itself with its other eye and, finding no improvement, walked back to Bobby. "I don't like to be a chicken, Bob," it said. "Why not? What does it feel like?" "It feels skinny and I can't see so good." "How else does it feel?" "That's all how it feels. Make me stop being it." "First tell me better what it's like." "I told you already. Make me stop being it."