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Everyone had heard the stories since before kindergarten. Somewhere near, or perhaps in the town itself, was the actual farm of “The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs,” a tale passed down from generation to generation, much longer than anyone could remember.
Jack, more than most kids, believed the stories. There was no question in his mind, the golden-egg-laying goose used to live close by, perhaps down the same dusty road leading to his parents’ small farm. Day after day, from the spring melt to the first snow, Jack scoured the fields, looking for a sign, something, anything, that would prove the existence of The Goose. A broken shell fragment, remnants of its coop, maybe even the holy grail itself: an intact egg. Jack knew one thing for certain—it was out there. All he had to do was find it.
But, dreams of glory, fortune, and worldwide acclaim gave way to algebra, video games, and a newfound appreciation for the girls in his class. Jack wanted to hold onto the magic of the story for as long as possible, but by age eleven, he knew. Like Santa and the Easter Bunny, it wasn’t true. Besides, Shelly Carol had, quite suddenly, become far more interesting and cootie-free than she was in third grade.
Unable to afford his own car, Jack usually had to walk to school. A few too many stuck vehicles of overconfident first-time drivers discouraged those friends from coming back to get him. Even in their small town, where Jack lived was considered “the boonies.”
“Sorry, man, it rained a few days ago. My dad will kill me if I get stuck again.”
Jack read the text. Though irritated, he understood. He would have done the same thing.
“No worries. I’ll hoof it. Again. So ready for college!” Jack replied to his best friend, Hank.
“A few more months, and we’re