A strand of blonde hair had escaped her low bun and stuck to her face.
She wiped mud from one glove against her jeans.
Then pointed down the rows.
“Come back in ninety days.”
Frank laughed.
“For what?”
“To ask for my numbers.”
The Maddox brothers laughed so hard Kyle nearly spilled his coffee.
Avery walked away.
Earl followed.
When they were out of earshot, he said:
“That was dramatic.”
“I know.”
“What if the numbers are terrible?”
Avery looked toward him.
“Then I don’t show Frank.”
Earl laughed.
For the first time that morning, she did too.
The chickens worked faster than Avery expected.
That did not mean they worked cleanly.
By noon, three had escaped through a gap in the netting.
One ended up beneath the tractor.
Another discovered the porch.
The third somehow entered the equipment shed and refused to leave.
Avery spent twenty minutes chasing it around a fertilizer spreader.
Earl stood at the doorway.
“Efficient.”
“Go away.”
“I’m observing management.”
“Observe quietly.”
The hen ran between Avery’s legs.
She slipped.
Caught herself on the spreader.
Earl laughed.
Avery pointed.
“One word and you’re fired.”
“You don’t pay me.”
“Then you’re especially easy to fire.”
By evening, she had collected seventy-two eggs.
Not bad considering the stress of transport.
Not good enough to matter financially yet.
She logged them anyway.
Day one.
498 hens.
0 mortality after unloading.
72 eggs.
Feed: 280 pounds.
Fallen apples visibly disturbed in Paddock A.
Man-hours: 11.4.
Fuel: 6.2 gallons.
Escapes: 3.
Earl insults: 21.
She added the last line for herself.
Then crossed it out.
At 9:30, Avery walked the perimeter with a headlamp.
Coyotes had been seen near the north creek.
She checked every fence corner.
Every shelter latch.
Every waterer.
The orchard sounded different at night with five hundred birds sleeping inside it.
Soft rustling.
Occasional clucks.
Wind through stripped branches.
Avery stood beneath the oldest Honeycrisp tree.
Her father had planted it when she was five.
She remembered because he let her hold the sapling while Earl shoveled soil.
Thomas had said:
“Don’t squeeze it.”
Five-year-old Avery had replied:
“I’m keeping it safe.”
Her father laughed.
“Safe isn’t tight.”
She did not understand then.
She thought about that sentence now.
Safe isn’t tight.
Thomas had not been sentimental.
He loved the orchard through maintenance.
Pruning.
Calibration.
Records.
Replanting.
Doing things when they needed doing.
He believed emotion was useful only if it eventually became labor.
Avery used to resent that.
Now she understood it too well.
She put one hand against the tree trunk.
“I’m trying.”
No answer.
Good.
The dead should not solve things for the living.
The following morning, Avery found twelve chickens outside the fence.
A branch had fallen on the net.
None were missing.
The third morning, a hawk took one.
Avery hated how quickly it happened.
A flash.
Feathers.
Then silence.
She logged the loss.
Mortality: 1.
Cause: predation.
She improved overhead shelter points.
Day five brought rain.
Not heavy.
Enough to turn the orchard slick.
The hens scratched in protected areas beneath trees and portable shelters.