Bills clicked against grain.
Every time the trader scattered feed, heads turned immediately.
They found it.
Not all.
Enough.
She asked:
“How long have they been blind?”
The trader shrugged.
“Most since hatchlings.”
“Do they eat?”
“Too much.”
“Find water?”
“Always.”
“Move together?”
“Usually.”
“Healthy?”
“Healthy enough.”
“Eggs?”
“Some.”
The trader stared at her.
“You’re considering this.”
The Young Farm Woman looked toward her husband.
He had the same expression he wore whenever she suggested something that sounded impossible but had enough logic to become dangerous.
He said:
“How much?”
The trader named a number.
The Young Farm Man immediately said no.
The Young Farm Woman said:
“Half.”
The trader laughed.
She turned away.
He called after her.
“Three quarters.”
She stopped.
They settled slightly above half.
That represented almost all the money they had set aside for pest control.
The Young Farm Man did not speak during the wagon ride home.
The ducks filled the back.
They quacked.
Bumped.
Shifted.
One somehow escaped a crate and spent ten minutes pushing its bill against the Young Farm Man’s boot.
Eventually he looked toward his wife.
“You already have a plan.”
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is worse.”
She smiled.
He did not.
“What do blind ducks have to do with the field?”
She answered:
“They don’t need to see insects to hear movement.”
He stared.
She continued.
“They forage by touch too.”
“You’re guessing.”
“Partly.”
“Excellent.”
“And the lower field is full of slugs.”
“We have chickens.”
“The chickens scratch seedlings.”
He looked back toward the flock.
“Ducks don’t?”
“Less.”
“Usually.”
He closed his eyes.
“Usually.”
She smiled again.
That had been three days ago.
Now half the valley had come to witness the experiment.
The couple’s farm sat at the edge of a high mountain valley surrounded by dark timber and peaks that held snow even into summer.
Their land was small.
Twenty-six acres total.
Only eleven truly productive.
Four in vegetables.
Five pasture.
Two oats and feed.
The rest was slope, creek, barnyard, orchard, and stubborn ground that seemed capable only of growing thistle.
They had inherited no wealth.
The Young Farm Man’s father had left the property.
Also debt.
The Young Farm Woman had brought two cows, one sewing machine, and enough determination to frighten cautious people.
They had survived three years.
Barely.
That season was supposed to be different.
Their vegetables had emerged well.
Beans.
Cabbage.
Potatoes.
Turnips.
Squash.
Leafy greens.
Carrots.
Then the insects came.
First small.
A few chewed leaves.
Then holes.
Then entire plants stripped along the edges.
Nobody knew whether the outbreak would spread.