It was a thing of beauty. The rubber chicken swung back and forth, back and forth, back and forth in a hangman’s noose. This was moment middle school boys dream of, the reason we skipped our after school activities, snuck into the school’s theater, made dirty jokes about “choking it,” and ascended to the heights of the catwalk. The fowl dangled there in center stage, just behind the curtain, swinging, swinging. The following morning, the intercom crackled and a livid voice demanded that anyone with information should come forward immediately. We gave each other subtle glances, never saying a word.