Chapter 2: Chicken Queen to Miracle Doctor

Before I got my second shot at life, my family ran a chicken farm outside Maple Heights. Yeah, a chicken farm.

You ever smell fresh hay at sunrise? That was my world. Our place sat on the edge of town, where the fields stretched forever and the only traffic jam was a flock of hens on the loose. We weren’t rich, but we had grit—and chickens. So many chickens.

Maybe it was family tradition, maybe just talent, but as soon as I could walk, I could wrangle chickens. No kidding.

I swear, my first words were probably "here, chick-chick." By kindergarten, I could outpace any hen in the yard. My dad joked I was born with feathers in my hair. I mean, neighbors would stop by just to watch me corral the flock—part sideshow, part legend.

Through all the ups and downs, folks respected me, affectionately calling me the Chicken-Slaying Queen—Butcher Extraordinaire.

It wasn’t the title I’d dreamed of, but in a small town, you take what you get. The local diner even named a sandwich after me: Riley’s Double Fried. I wore the nickname like a badge, even if it didn’t exactly help my social life. Go figure.

My last name isn’t King. (Surprise.)

King is just a nickname. As in, you know, "Queen of Loneliness."

But my real name? Riley Turner.

When I was ten, still clumsy, I killed a chicken in front of the cutest boy in fifth grade and got blood all over my face. Yeah, that went about as well as you’d expect.

Lost my elementary school crush privileges. Just like that.

He never looked at me the same after that. I still remember the way he shrank away at recess, like I was some horror movie villain. First heartbreak. Courtesy of poultry.

At fourteen, my technique was flawless. I wrung a chicken’s neck right in front of my best friend from next door, didn’t even blink. Hardcore, I know.

Lost my shot at an early high school romance. Figures.

She ghosted me for a week, then told everyone I was "hardcore." Not exactly the vibe you want when you’re hoping for a prom date. I got a reputation—part admiration, part fear. Story of my life.

At twenty, a true expert, I tore two chickens apart barehanded in front of my crush, a senior. (Don’t ask.)

There went my chance at campus dating. Sigh.

He changed tables in the dining hall. My phone lit up with memes of me photoshopped as a medieval butcher. Even my professors started calling me "Boss Turner." No joke.

Even after I died unexpectedly and woke up in a new life, I never figured it out. Yeah, that happened.

Why am I so unlucky in love? Seriously.

Are hand-shredded chicken, fried chicken, chicken casserole, roast chicken, chicken pot pie, chicken and dumplings, spicy wings, BBQ chicken, grilled chicken... really that unappetizing?

I mean, who doesn’t love chicken? Right? Maybe it’s the sight of raw poultry that ruins the romance. Or maybe people just can’t handle a woman who knows her way around a cleaver.

Why do people hate chicken-wrangling so much? Beats me.

Is it because they’ve never had real southern fried chicken? (Not the fast-food kind!)

I swear, if they tasted my grandma’s recipe, they’d change their tune. There’s a world of difference between fast food and the real deal—crispy, golden, and made with love.

But life? Life had more in store for me.