Children flew like chickens in a hen house raided by a bear. At least what I had read about chickens once in a Golden Book I found. What I saw through the windshield of the Chevy looked just like the picture I remembered before we ate the book.

"You hit the kids!" I yelled. I felt my brother's hand upon my arm.

"Bowling pins," my grandfather mumbled. "Chickens," said my mother. "Not children. Chickens."

And we drove on.