Found this in my fried chicken. It was in the breαst.

inside what was supposed to be a simple, processed cut of meat flipped my entire evening upside down. For a moment, it didn’t matter how perfectly the skin was fried or how savory the aroma was; all I could see was that tiny, wrinkled intruder. I pushed the plate away, my hands trembling slightly, and reached for my phone. I needed to document it, continue reading …