I’m in an old apartment.
The veneer on the kitchen cabinets is peeling off, and the place feels grimy.
On the floor, a small plastic bag has spilled, and kitchen scraps are overflowing from it.
Among them, I see eggshells, something with a slimy texture, and a chick.

This chick was born from a rotten egg. As proof, it has an unusual face—its eyes are set in the front.
That makes me feel uneasy. The eyes and beak are far too close together.
What should I do with this chick? I don’t really want to keep it nearby.

It’s a dirty gray color, yet fluffy.
It’s small, so not dangerous, but I don’t want to grab it with my hands.
If I did, it might jab me with its sharp beak, and besides, the idea of this malformed chick born from a rotten egg makes me hesitate to touch it directly.
For now, I coax it outside, toward the entrance.

I think to myself: if I leave it out there, crows or something will probably attack it and it will die soon.
The chick waddles around, and I crouch down to watch it.
Time seems to pass like that.

Before I realize it, the chick has grown into my daughter.
She looks about her early twenties, with long black hair and black-rimmed glasses.
She somewhat resembles one of the sexy lesbian inmates from Orange Is the New Black.

My daughter and I are still crouched down outside that same grimy apartment where I had watched the chick.
She says, “Maybe I could rent out a tobacco shop.”
Ah yes, the old kind with a small window counter, and Marlboro ads posted above it.
I reply, “That could work.”
Maybe she wants to use it as a gallery space, or some kind of exhibition venue.