“Still got your army?”
The boy nodded.
“Any apples yet?”
“It’s April.”
The farmer laughed.
“I know.”
The boy went back to work.
The truck remained.
Finally the farmer asked, “What are they eating?”
The boy looked up.
“You said chickens eat bugs.”
“I know what I said.”
“Then bugs.”
“What kind?”
The boy almost smiled.
“Come back in ten days.”
The farmer drove off.
But slowly.
That night brought rain.
Heavy rain.
The kind that turned orchard lanes into mud.
The farm boy woke twice thinking about the chickens.
Before dawn, he put on boots and ran outside.
His mobile coop had leaked.
Several hens were wet.
One section of fencing had fallen.
At least thirty birds had escaped into a neighboring row.
He spent an hour in the rain fixing things.
His father found him struggling with the fence.
“You’re going to freeze.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m wet.”
“House. Now.”
“The chickens—”
“I’ll handle chickens.”
The boy stopped.
His father rarely offered to handle the experiment.
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“But—”
“House.”
The boy went.
From the kitchen window, wrapped in a blanket, he watched his father repair the fence.
His mother set hot oatmeal in front of him.
“You know what that means?”
“What?”
“He’s curious.”
The boy shook his head.
“He’s angry.”
“Those things can happen together.”
His father came inside twenty minutes later.
Mud covered his pants.
He removed his jacket.
“Fence is fixed.”
“Thanks.”
The father poured coffee.
Then said casually, “There were a lot of larvae under the wet leaves.”
The boy looked up.
“How many?”
“I didn’t count.”
The boy looked disappointed.
The father stared at him.
“I was standing in rain fixing your fence.”
“Right.”
The boy ate another spoonful.
Then he asked, “More than yesterday?”
The father sighed.
“Yes.”
The boy smiled.
By the end of the first week, the orchard smelled different.
The boy noticed before anyone else.
Wet leaves had begun breaking down faster where the hens scratched.
The soil surface was exposed in irregular patches.
Chicken manure appeared throughout the rows.
Nothing dramatic had happened to the trees yet.
But activity had changed.
The orchard floor was no longer still.
The hens moved constantly.
They scratched beneath trees.
They hunted around fallen branches.
They pecked at old fruit remains.
They disturbed insect hiding places that sprays did not easily reach.
The father began watching in the evenings.
Never for long.
Five minutes.
Sometimes ten.
He always pretended to be doing something else.
Checking irrigation.
Inspecting fence posts.
Looking for tools.
The boy noticed.
He said nothing.
On day eight, the first serious problem happened.
A group of hens scratched too aggressively around a young tree.
The boy found shallow feeder roots exposed.
His stomach dropped.
His father’s warning immediately returned.
If they damage roots, they come out.
The boy covered the roots carefully.
Then moved the fencing.
He reduced chicken access around younger trees.