I went to the supermarket yesterday to buy some chicken. It was cold in the frozen food aisle, so I asked the man next to me for his jacket. He looked at me and laughed at my naiveté, then told me no, turned, and left me freezing. A woman on the right of me pointed to a bag of raw chicken glazed over in a powdery ice. I followed her finger and grabbed the bag before she could. It was cold and slimly and raw and there was a small hole in the bottom of the clear, plastic wrapping. I tried to cover it with my finger, but it became too large. A thick, red liquid gushed out onto my feet, followed by raw chicken breast, skin, feathers, and an egg. The egg hatched as it hit my foot; I wondered what I would need to clean the chicken off my shoes.