By now, the offices of the Lüttmoorsiel News had the atmosphere of a place where someone had accidentally announced the outbreak of World War III.
The phone had been ringing nonstop for almost twenty minutes.
The old editor-in-chief stood in the middle of the room with the receiver wedged between his shoulder and his ear, scratching his balding head so vigorously it was as though he hoped to find an explanation hidden somewhere up there.
“No,” he said for the third time. “We don’t know whether any other chickens are affected.”
A brief pause.
“No, I strongly advise against panic buying.”
Another pause.
“Madam, please… do not start freezing scrambled eggs as a precaution.”
He slammed down the receiver and spun around to face Leonie.
“Have you completely lost your mind?”
Leonie sat curled up on her swivel chair, desperately trying not to look pleased with herself.
“It’s called getting attention.”
“It’s called losing all journalistic restraint!”
The phone rang again.
The editor-in-chief ignored it with the dignity of a man who had already surrendered internally.
“A woman from Dortmund just asked me whether it’s still safe to make omelets for her children!”
“There you go.” Leonie shrugged. “People care about the story.”
“Because you wrote that Germany might be facing a crisis!”
“Maybe it is!”
The old man gasped indignantly.
“Leonie! We’re talking about ONE missing egg!”
“But that’s exactly the point,” she shot back. “People are reacting to it! The veterinarian is talking about possible consequences, prices are suddenly going up, and by now half the village is talking about epidemics.”
The editor-in-chief began pacing frantically around the cramped office.
With his foot, he shoved aside a stack of old editions bearing headlines such as New Bicycle Rack Inaugurated at Harbor and Bowling Club Donates Bench.
“This is madness,” he muttered. “Complete madness.”
The phone kept ringing.
An email popped up.
Then another.
And another.
Leonie watched him closely.
Slowly, his expression began to change.
The anger was still there.
But beneath it, something else was emerging.
Something dangerous.
Journalistic hunger.
The old man suddenly stopped and stared at the screen.
“My God.”
“What?”
Without a word, he pointed at the website traffic.
The numbers were shooting upward like the electricity bill of a cannabis grower.
“Hot Spot News is on its way,” he said tonelessly.
Leonie blinked.
This was bigger than anything she had imagined.
“The real ones?”
“The satellite truck is already on its way to Lüttmoorsiel.”
For a brief moment, there was absolute silence in the room.
Then Leonie jumped to her feet.
“This is my story!”
“So far, this is still nothing more than one missing egg and a nervous veterinarian,” the editor-in-chief growled. “If it turns out tomorrow that the chicken simply laid its egg behind the coop, you and I will be writing about persistent hoarseness in the church choir and missing dachshunds until retirement.”
Leonie was barely listening anymore.
She raced outside.
Warm summer air greeted her, and somewhere across the village square a seagull screeched.
She took a deep breath.
For the first time, Lüttmoorsiel no longer felt like the forgotten end of the world.