The Canned Chicken Accord
Welcome back to the Good Soup Chronicles, where familiars run the show and chaos always comes with pawprints.”
She arrived screaming. Tiny. Feral. Tucked behind netting on the porch like a cryptid with trust issues.
I offered chicken. She hissed.
I offered more chicken. She considered.
Then… this.
The first time Soup allowed herself to be held, and I knew I’d signed something ancient in canned broth.
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