Sarah Finkler set the basin of warm water on the porch under safe sunlight.

Sarah’s two year old son, covered in snot and dust, had crawled into the front yard chasing after baby chicks. Stripping the child naked like she was skinning a rabbit, she gently placed him in the round washtub.

Her son could still see the chicks. Reaching out for them, he screamed as if he was dipped in boiling water. Then he became silent. The screaming stopped so abruptly, Sarah’s perceptions tripled. Her son was like a frog that stopped croaking when danger was near. Even at two he was her protector, her naked little boy in shining armor.

She turned to see a cloud of dust rising towards their cabin. And pounding hooves. Sarah scooped up the tub, grabbed a couple chicks, and ran to the root cellar, which had a hidden door. She threw her son and the chicks out with the bathwater into the cellar, all landing on a pile of burlap.

Distracted by the chicks, Sarah’s son would never know how much fight his mother had in her.