It was the day before Thanksgiving, and Tom and Giblet, two plump turkeys, sat under the shade of a sprawling oak tree at the edge of the farm. They had overheard the farmer’s plans earlier that morning and were in the middle of an existential crisis.

“I don’t get it, Gib,” Tom said, pacing in circles. “How does a holiday about giving thanks end up with us in the oven? It’s a yearly genocide, and yet they call it gratitude!”

Giblet, reclining on a pile of leaves, shrugged. “Humans are weird like that. They celebrate by stuffing themselves full of food and then blaming the pumpkin pie for their bloated misery. But you know what’s really confusing? They call us the centerpiece of their joy. How is being roasted to a golden crisp joyful for us?”

Tom flapped his wings in exasperation. “Right?! And they say things like, ‘Let’s give thanks for our blessings’ while they’re basting us in butter! I bet no one thanks the turkey.”

“Not true,” Giblet said, smirking. “I heard a guy on TV last year say, ‘This turkey is the most tender I’ve ever had. Thank you, Tom.’ It’s probably the same Tom who was here before you.”

Tom gulped. “Well, that’s comforting. At least I’ll be remembered for my… moistness.”

The two turkeys sat in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of distant traffic and the clanging of pots in the farmhouse kitchen.

“You know,” Giblet mused, “what if humans didn’t eat turkey for Thanksgiving? What would they have instead? Tofu? Fish? Pizza?”

“Pizza?” Tom scoffed. “Imagine the chaos! Aunt Linda’s mad because Uncle Joe ordered anchovies. Cousins arguing over pineapple. No one’s giving thanks, Gib. Just civil war on a plate.”

“Exactly,” Giblet said, leaning in. “We turkeys bring people together. Think about it. Every American family strives to keep this tradition alive because we are on the menu. If it weren’t for us, Thanksgiving might just be another Wednesday.”

Tom frowned, then nodded slowly. “So, what you’re saying is… we’re like the glue that holds Thanksgiving together?”

“Precisely,” Giblet said with a smug grin. “Without us, they’d just be eating boring casseroles and arguing over football. We’re essential, Tom. Legends, even.”

Tom sighed and flopped down beside his friend. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess being roasted for the greater good isn’t the worst fate.”

“Exactly!” Giblet said, puffing up his feathers. “If humanity needs us to keep their families united, who are we to stand in the way?”

As the sun set over the farm, the two turkeys shared a moment of quiet reflection.

“You know, Gib,” Tom said, a small smile tugging at his beak, “I hope whoever eats me tomorrow goes for seconds.”

“Atta boy,” Giblet said, patting him on the wing. “Let’s make humanity thankful, one bite at a time.”

And with that, the turkeys resigned themselves to their fate—not with fear, but with a sense of purpose. After all, they weren’t just birds—they were Thanksgiving heroes.