He wrote the mistake down.
His mother saw him at the kitchen table later.
“What happened?”
“Roots.”
“Bad?”
“Not terrible.”
“Your father know?”
The boy stared at the notebook.
“Not yet.”
His mother sat down.
“You should tell him.”
“I fixed it.”
“That was not my question.”
The boy looked unhappy.
“If I tell him, he’ll stop it.”
“Maybe.”
“He said root damage means they come out.”
“Then you have a choice.”
“What?”
“Hide information because it hurts your idea.”
She tapped the notebook.
“Or decide the information matters more than the idea.”
The boy understood exactly what she meant.
He hated it.
He found his father in the barn.
“I need to show you something.”
The father followed him.
The boy uncovered part of the soil near the tree.
“Chickens exposed these.”
The father crouched.
“How long?”
“Maybe a few hours.”
“You cover them immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Any broken?”
“One small one.”
The father examined the tree.
The boy waited.
Finally the father stood.
“You moved fencing?”
“Yes.”
“Young trees off-limits?”
“Yes.”
The boy swallowed.
“So they stay?”
His father looked toward the flock.
“You caught the problem.”
The boy waited.
“Experiment continues.”
The boy exhaled.
Then his father added, “But now you know something you did not know before.”
“What?”
“An idea does not have to be completely right to be useful.”
The boy thought about that.
His father started walking away.
“Also, your chickens destroyed my onion bed.”
The boy froze.
“What?”
“Six of them.”
“I’ll fix it.”
“You will.”
His father kept walking.
The boy almost laughed.
The older farmer visited on day nine.
Not the loud farmer.
The oldest of the three.
He arrived alone.
The boy was checking one of his marked trees.
The farmer stood behind him.
“What are you counting?”
The boy turned.
“Bud damage.”
The farmer looked at the notebook.
“You write it down?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So I know if it changes.”
The farmer nodded.
He crouched near the tree.
“Your grandfather used to keep chickens around the barn.”
The boy looked interested.
“In the orchard?”
“No.”
The farmer scratched the soil with one finger.
“But birds used to wander everywhere.”
He looked at the hens.
“Farms were messier then.”
The boy was not sure what that meant.
The farmer explained.
“More animals. More mixed crops. Less separation.”
“Was that better?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why did it stop?”
The farmer shrugged.
“Efficiency.”
The boy waited.
“Specialization.”
The farmer looked around.
“People got good at doing one thing.”
“Apples.”
“Apples.”