Anke was sitting in the living room with Nils.
By now, her coffee was only lukewarm, but at least it was reasonably drinkable.
Nils Albers had set up his laptop on the small coffee table, with several cables running across the carpet.
On the screen, the chicken coop appeared in the slightly greenish tint of security-camera footage.
Herbert paced through the picture like a bad-tempered prison guard on the night shift.
“All right,” Nils said, clicking on the timeline. “The camera went online at 2:07 a.m.”
Anke took a sip of coffee. “Fast-forward. I only want to see the eggs.”
Nils obediently sped up the footage.
The chickens now jerked frantically across the screen like overexcited elderly ladies at a clearance sale. Herbert repeatedly shot through the picture, occasionally pecking aggressively at the camera.
“Apparently, he doesn’t like technology,” Nils muttered.
“He doesn’t like anything.”
Suddenly, Anke sat up a little straighter.
“Stop.”
Nils froze the image.
Anke looked closely.
Roswitha was sitting with great dignity in the nest on the left.
“That’s Roswitha,” Anke explained in the tone of a newsreader. “She almost always lays first. Between five and five-thirty.”
Nils clicked forward.
A few seconds later, an egg rolled into the straw.
Anke nodded with satisfaction.
“Five twenty-three. As punctual as the evening news.”
“Should I write that down?”
“Of course.”
Nils actually began taking notes.
They fast-forwarded again.
Bärbel laid her egg at 6:02 and nearly fell backward out of the nest afterward.
“She’s always been a bit scatterbrained,” Anke commented dryly.
Sissi followed at 6:48.
Meanwhile, Herbert strutted across the screen several times and crowed directly beside the camera, making the microphone crackle unpleasantly.
“He thinks he’s the manager,” Anke muttered.
Erna laid her egg at 7:12 and then angrily pecked at Herbert.
“See?” Anke pointed at the screen. “Those two are fighting again. We had the same thing last year over a strawberry.”
Nils blinked in confusion.
“Over ONE strawberry?”
“Herbert holds grudges.”
Nils fast-forwarded again.
Roswitha scratched at the sand.
Bärbel drank some water.
Sissi stood motionless for several minutes, staring at the wall like an accountant on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
But no more eggs appeared.
Anke slowly frowned.
“Gertrud should be next.”
Nils slowed down the footage.
The clock jumped to 7:49.
Gertrud walked into view.
She scratched briefly at the straw.
Sat down in the nest.
Anke leaned slightly forward.
Nothing.
Gertrud got up again, walked over to the water bowl, and calmly took a drink.
The living room fell silent.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Anke murmured. “It’s Gertrud. But why?”
Nils continued through the footage.
Suddenly, Herbert began pacing around the coop with unusual agitation.
Again and again, he moved toward the door.
Then something moved outside.
A shadow passed the coop window.
Nils abruptly froze the image.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Anke slowly put down her coffee cup.
“Rewind.”
Nils nodded silently.
The footage played again.
Once more, the shadow slipped past the window.
This time, more clearly.
Long hair.
A scarf wrapped around the head.
The coop door slowly creaked open.
And Isabelle crept into view.
“All that effort just to read an egg,” Anke muttered.
“Excuse me?”
Anke didn’t answer immediately.
Her gaze drifted out toward the garden.
Beyond the picket fence, Lüttmoorsiel lay peacefully in the sunshine as though nothing crazy had ever happened there.
Seagulls screeched above the dike.
Somewhere, a lawn mower growled its way through tall grass.
The wind moved the laundry on Petersen’s washing line.
“And I nearly drank the entire universe this morning,” Anke finally said.
Nils looked at her in confusion.
Suspiciously, he pulled his vape from his pocket and sniffed it.
Strawberry.
Nothing else.
Anke was still staring thoughtfully toward the chicken coop.
Gertrud.
What on earth was wrong with her?
“Maybe she’s offended,” she murmured.
“A chicken?” Nils asked.
“You don’t know Gertrud.”
Before he could answer, a white satellite truck rounded the corner and rumbled to a stop directly in front of the picket fence.
Across the side, in huge letters, were the words:
HOT SPOT NEWS
Anke slowly closed her eyes.
“No. Please, no.”
The side door of the truck flew open.
Two men carrying cables and cameras jumped out, followed by a tall blonde woman in a beige coat, immaculately groomed as though dressed for a natural disaster with a sponsorship deal.
Without even bothering to ring the bell, the team marched straight through the garden gate.
“Are we getting everything?” the presenter asked coolly. “Especially me?”
“Rolling,” said the cameraman.
The woman stopped in the middle of the garden, gave Anke a quick once-over, and immediately put on her professional crisis face.
“Mrs. Lorenz,” she said seriously. “Hot Spot News. Would you be willing to give us a brief interview?”
Anke pulled her bathrobe tighter around herself.
“Not really.”
“It would be important for the people out there.”
“The people out there should fry themselves some eggs and leave me alone.”
Before the presenter could respond, Käthe Kruse appeared at the fence.
Of course.
“I’D be happy to say something,” she called immediately, already pushing her way through the garden gate.
“Nobody here doubts that,” Anke muttered.
Almost simultaneously, Dr. Wepper came around the corner.
He looked remarkably pleased with himself.
“The examinations are complete,” he announced importantly. “The stool samples are normal. The birds are healthy.”
The presenter blinked in disappointment.
“So there’s no epidemic?”
“No.”
“No danger to Germany?”
Wepper thought for a moment.
“Not originating from this particular coop, at least.”
The cameraman lowered the camera slightly.
The presenter looked as though someone had canceled Christmas.
Leonie Martens came running along the gravel path, out of breath, her smartphone in her hand and her eyes shining with excitement.
“Prices are still rising!” she shouted before she had even reached the garden. “In the next village, an egg now costs three euros forty!”
The camera immediately went back up.
“What?” the presenter demanded sharply.
Leonie nodded frantically.
“The trend is now spreading nationwide,” she continued professionally. “More and more businesses are raising their prices. Experts are already warning of possible effects on the entire German egg market.”
“And Mrs. Lorenz got five euros for ONE egg this morning,” Käthe Kruse added proudly, as though she had personally stabilized the stock market.
Anke spun around indignantly.
“What business is that of yours? This morning was completely different.”
Käthe smiled innocently.
The presenter was instantly wide awake again.
“Is that true, Mrs. Lorenz? Did you receive five euros for a single egg this morning?”
Anke threw up her hands helplessly.
“Yes, but that was that Berlin egg esoteric woman with the universe in her thermos!”
“I wrote the article, by the way,” Leonie added proudly.
The presenter gave her a brief nod, completely unimpressed.
“And do you expect a general rise in prices across the German egg market?”
Leonie visibly straightened.
“At this point, we have to assume so.”
“WHAT?” Anke burst out.
The presenter slowly turned toward the camera.
“You heard it here first.”
A dramatic pause.
“Is a development beginning here in Lüttmoorsiel that could soon affect all of Germany? Today it’s eggs. What will it be tomorrow?”
In the background, Herbert suddenly crowed so loudly it sounded as though he were personally announcing the end of civilization.
At the same time, he flapped aggressively against the coop door and then furiously pecked at the microphone cable.
“That rooster is attacking the press!” the cameraman shouted indignantly.
“Herbert doesn’t accept the media,” Anke said dryly.
The presenter quickly regained her composure.
“Whatever may be heading our way, one question remains unanswered.”
She slowly turned toward Anke.
“If the birds are healthy… why has the chicken stopped laying eggs?”
Anke answered immediately.
“Gertrud.”
A brief silence.
“Excuse me?”
“Gertrud has stopped laying.”
The presenter pointed toward the coop.
“Can we see the bird?”
She turned to the cameraman.
“Pan over to the coop.”
The camera slowly moved across the chickens.
“That’s Sissi,” Anke explained automatically.
The presenter switched off her microphone.
“Is that important?” she asked, puzzled. “They all look the same.”
“Of course it’s important. Sissi lays eggs.” Anke pointed farther toward the back left. “There. THAT is Gertrud.”
Gertrud stood motionless in the straw, regarding the world with exactly the same indifference as a pensioner waiting for a bus.
The blonde presenter switched her microphone back on and smiled pleasantly.
“You seem to know your chickens very well,” she said. “Why isn’t Gertrud laying an egg?”
Anke remained silent for several seconds.
The wind moved through the grass.
Seagulls screeched above the dike.
Then she looked at Gertrud.
And finally, straight into the camera.
“Because she doesn’t want to.”
A brief pause.
“She’s on strike.”
Even the presenter needed a moment.
“Well,” she finally said, slightly hoarse. “If she absolutely refuses…”
“Don’t you understand?” Leonie suddenly interrupted excitedly. “What does it say about Germany if a single chicken can influence the entire egg market?”
The presenter slowly nodded.
Then she put on her most serious news face and stared directly into the camera.
“Perhaps what we are witnessing here is more than an unusual incident in a small coastal village.”
A dramatic pause.
“Perhaps we are witnessing the moment when a single chicken begins to challenge the German economy.”
In the background, Herbert crowed again like a deranged dictator addressing the masses from a balcony.