The boy answered quickly.
“They lay eggs.”
The farmer looked at him.
“These old hens?”
“Some.”
“How many?”
“Average is eighty-six eggs a day now.”
The farmer’s expression changed.
The boy continued.
“We sell them at the roadside stand.”
“How much?”
The boy told him.
The farmer calculated silently.
“Enough to pay feed?”
“Most of it.”
“Most isn’t all.”
“No.”
“What about labor?”
The boy looked down.
“Mine.”
The men laughed again.
The boy did too.
The loud farmer nodded slowly.
“You thought about it.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t mean it works.”
“I know.”
The farmer looked surprised.
The boy continued.
“Two weeks isn’t finished.”
The farmer checked his watch as if that mattered.
“Three days.”
The boy nodded.
“Come back.”
The farmer started toward his truck.
Then stopped.
“You really think these birds are doing something?”
The boy looked toward the trees.
“Yes.”
“How sure?”
The boy thought.
“More than day one.”
The farmer frowned.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
The old farmer smiled behind him.
Day twelve brought sunshine.
For the first time in a week, temperature warmed significantly.
The orchard seemed to wake.
Buds swelled.
Grass turned greener.
The chickens moved farther during the day.
The boy noticed a second benefit.
They were breaking apart old apples left beneath trees.
The previous autumn had been so difficult that the family could not afford enough labor to remove all fallen fruit.
Many remained beneath trees through winter.
Those old apples could harbor pests and disease.
The hens attacked them.
Pecking.
Scratching.
Scattering rotten flesh.
Eating insects inside.
The boy had expected bug control.
He had not expected cleanup.
He wrote it down.
His father found the note.
“Sanitation,” the father said.
“What?”
“That’s what you’re seeing.”
“From chickens?”
“Maybe.”
The father looked around.
“If they reduce fallen fruit before pest emergence, that matters.”
The boy smiled.
The father caught himself.
“Maybe.”
The boy smiled wider.
“I said maybe.”
“I know.”
Day thirteen began with bad news.
The packing house called.
It was not about current fruit.
There was no current fruit yet.
It was about last year’s unpaid balance.
The family owed for storage and handling fees.
The father spent an hour on the phone.
The boy overheard enough to understand.
Money was worse than he thought.
That afternoon, he considered selling the hens.
They had already demonstrated something.
Maybe the flock itself had value.
Maybe selling them would help.
He told his mother.
She listened.
“Do you want to sell them?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Money.”
She nodded.
“That’s a real reason.”
The boy looked toward the orchard.