“What would you do?”
“I would ask what problem you’re trying to solve.”
“Debt.”
“Selling chickens will solve all of it?”
“No.”
“Part?”
“A tiny part.”
“Then maybe do not destroy something useful to solve a problem it cannot solve.”
The boy looked at her.
“You say things weird.”
She laughed.
“I’m your mother. That’s my job.”
The boy kept the hens.
Day fourteen arrived cold and clear.
The local farmers returned before eight in the morning.
Not three this time.
Seven.
Word had spread that the two-week experiment was ending.
Some came to laugh if it failed.
Others came because they had heard strange reports.
The father stood by the barn.
The boy opened the orchard gate.
Chickens moved between rows.
The loud farmer arrived last.
He stepped from his truck.
“Well?”
The farm boy held his notebook.
“Come look.”
Nobody laughed.
Not yet.
They walked first to the control trees.
The boy showed his markers.
He explained how he selected them.
He showed surface soil samples.
Larvae counts.
Bud observations.
The farmers listened.
Some with skepticism.
Some with interest.
Then he moved to the chicken-access trees.
The differences were not miraculous.
No tree had suddenly transformed.
No branch carried fruit overnight.
But the changes were visible.
The ground was cleaner.
Fewer overwintered insect larvae appeared in shallow samples.
Old dropped fruit had been broken down.
Several trees showed healthier emerging buds than expected.
The father produced records from the previous year.
Pest damage had been worst in that section.
The loud farmer crouched.
He dug gently near one tree.
He found almost nothing.
Then he walked to a control area and repeated the motion.
Two larvae appeared quickly.
He stared at them.
One of the hens approached.
It snatched one.
Nobody spoke.
The farm boy watched the farmer’s face.
The old farmer broke the silence.
“Well.”
The loud farmer stood.
“It’s two weeks.”
“Yes,” the boy said.
“Could be coincidence.”
“Yes.”
The man blinked.
He had expected an argument.
The boy continued.
“That’s why I want another two weeks.”
One farmer laughed softly.
The father folded his arms.
“What would you change?”
The boy looked at him.
“What?”
“If you continue.”
The boy had not expected the question.
He thought quickly.
“Younger trees stay fenced.”
The father nodded.
“Good.”
“I move the coop every few days.”
“Why?”
“Manure. And so they work different rows.”
“Good.”
“I keep control trees without chickens.”
“Good.”
The boy looked toward his notebook.
“I track feed and eggs too.”
His father nodded again.
The loud farmer looked between them.
“So now we’re running a research station?”
The boy answered.
“No.”
He pointed toward the orchard.
“We’re trying not to lose the farm.”
That ended the joking.
Because everyone there understood.
The farm was not a science project.
It was a family’s livelihood.