“Don’t tell me they’re snake.” With the idea, nausea swelled within Chelsea, bringing a rush of heat.
Across the breakfast table, Glen chuckled. “Nope. Not snake. You’ll never guess.”
“Then just tell what kind of eggs they are. The answer must be something gross.”
“Depends on how you look at it, I guess. I see it as…good fortune.”
When breakfast was done, Glen packed up for work and headed for the door, kissing her goodbye. And when the house was quiet and still, she began her search for answers. She tore apart the fridge, checked the drawers and cupboards. Nothing.
A strange tingle ran along her arm, brought on by a cluster of dark specks that sprouted into hairs and multiplied. She gasped.
The eggs. They caused this. The hair spread all over. She went for the phone to call for an ambulance but tripped over the dog, landing hard on the kitchen tile.
“Damn it, Fluff.” She turned to find the dog in full squatting position, about to do her business. But business had apparently changed.
What made its grand exit from the dog was a small, yellow egg that rolled toward her. She stared for a moment in disbelief as two more joined the first.
Her husband had much explaining to do.
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