Next, he drove forty miles out to . The owner, a woman named Martha whose face was as lined as a topographical map, led him to a field.

"Our birds are massaged daily with rosemary oil," Silas claimed, leaning over the counter. "They listen to Vivaldi. It relaxes the hamstrings."

Arthur’s search began at , a boutique butcher shop where the floors were dusted with fresh sawdust and the prices required a small personal loan. The butcher, a man named Silas who wore a leather apron like armor, spoke in whispers.

Arthur looked at The General. The General looked back with a gaze that suggested he knew Arthur’s search history. It felt too personal. How could he carve something he’d been formally introduced to?

For Arthur, the quest for the Christmas turkey was a solemn, annual pilgrimage. He didn’t want a supermarket bird wrapped in plastic that tasted like "refrigerated sadness." He wanted the legend.

Arthur considered it. A relaxed turkey sounded lovely, but at eighty dollars a bird, he felt the turkey should also be able to drive him home.