Hour one.
Then two.
The flock slowed.
Water.
Rest.
The Young Farm Woman rotated them.
Thirty birds field.
Thirty shade.
Then switch.
Not because she had planned exactly.
Because she was adapting.
The Young Farm Man carried water.
The Old Farmer moved insects with a broom.
At one point he slipped in mud and almost landed in the cabbage.
Nobody laughed.
There was no energy.
By noon, the northern rows looked damaged but alive.
The beetle mass had thinned.
Not vanished.
The ducks rested heavily.
Crops still stood.
The Young Farm Man looked toward the ridge.
More insects.
A second wave.
The Old Farmer cursed.
The Young Farm Woman wiped sweat from her face.
“We do it again.”
They did.
By evening, thousands of beetles had been eaten.
Thousands more moved elsewhere.
The couple’s field suffered damage.
But not destruction.
The neighboring farm to the north lost nearly half its potato leaves.
Another lost beans.
The Old Farmer’s south plot began showing infestation near sunset.
He saw it from the ridge.
His face changed.
He looked toward the ducks.
Then toward his own land.
The Young Farm Woman noticed.
He said nothing.
Neither did she.
He left before dark.
The next morning he returned.
Alone.
No audience.
No clean vest.
Just work clothes.
Hat in hand.
The Young Farm Man was repairing fence.
The Woman was watering ducks.
The Old Farmer stopped ten feet away.
For several seconds he said nothing.
The Young Farm Man kept working.
Finally:
“I need the birds.”
The hammer stopped.
The Young Farm Woman looked up.
The Old Farmer stared at the ground.
“My potatoes.”
Silence.
“Beetles moved in last night.”
The Young Farm Man resumed hammering.
The Old Farmer’s face tightened.
“I’m asking.”
The Young Farm Woman stood.
“How many acres?”
“Three affected.”
“Three total?”
“Eight.”
She shook her head.
“Sixty ducks can’t cover eight.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“Start where damage is worst.”
The Young Farm Man looked at her.
She looked back.
There was history in that glance.
All the jokes.
Fence laughter.
Public humiliation.
Blind pests.
Broken livestock.
Now he needed them.
The Young Farm Man said:
“We should charge.”
The Old Farmer nodded immediately.
“Fine.”
“How much?”
“Say it.”
The Young Farm Woman interrupted.
“No.”
Both men looked at her.
She continued.
“We charge for labor.”
“Transport.”
“Feed.”
“Water.”
“Damage if any.”
“Not desperation.”