“Are you sure we’re doing this right?” Flynn asked. His fellow foxes’ expressions ranged from squinty to salivating to somewhat constipated.

Felix read from the book he snuck out of the library, “‘To manifest something into reality, visualize it. What does it look like? How does it smell? What does it feel like? Use your imagination and all of your senses.'” He glanced around the circle and flicked his ear. “It’s a chicken, how hard could it be?”

Flynn sighed. Starting on his right, he asked each fox to describe what they were trying to manifest.

Fagen said, “A twelve pound Jersey Giant.”

“Orpington,” murmured Franklin, his eyes half closed.

“Two naked leghorns!”

“Naked?” Felix asked.

“No feathers,” Finley answered. “They always get stuck in my teeth.”

So much for harnessing the power of the pack, Flynn thought, rubbing his forehead with his paw. As he suggested they concentrate on the same kind of chicken, the wind shifted. Every fox faced north, nose in the air, breathing deeply.

On the path below the den, three vixens trotted into view. Each had a rotisserie chicken in her mouth. The lead female made eye contact with Flynn and winked as they left the path and headed into the forest.

Felix licked his whiskers. “The book also says taking action is important.”

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