Avery explained.
Maria laughed.
“Those are the famous apple chickens?”
Avery closed her eyes.
“Apparently.”
“I saw the picture.”
“Great.”
“You looked furious.”
“I was.”
Maria said:
“I’ll take ten dozen tomorrow.”
Avery sat up.
“Really?”
“If quality is good.”
“What price?”
They negotiated.
Not amazing.
Better than wholesale commodity eggs.
Maria added:
“If customers like the story, maybe more.”
Avery almost objected.
The story.
She wanted people to buy eggs because they were good, not because she had become county entertainment.
Then she looked at the farm’s checking account.
“Story’s free.”
Maria sold them as Cedar Hollow Orchard Eggs.
Avery hated the name.
Customers loved it.
Within three weeks, two cafes and a farm store joined.
Egg revenue began covering most poultry feed.
That changed the economics immediately.
The hens were no longer merely an orchard sanitation cost.
They were producing something.
Avery updated the spreadsheet.
Frank Wheeler did not know yet.
She enjoyed that more than she should have.
Then November brought the bank.
Avery had been expecting a call.
She did not expect the banker to arrive in person.
Martin Hale drove a clean black pickup that never seemed to touch mud despite living in a farming county.
He was forty-six, polite, careful, and always smelled faintly of peppermint.
Thomas Collins had trusted him.
Avery did not.
That was not Martin’s fault.
Bankers simply became more threatening when your father died owing their employer money.
Martin stood inside the packing shed looking at crates.
“How’s harvest?”
“Done.”
“I mean numbers.”
“Down twenty-eight percent from last year.”
He winced.
“Packout?”
“Worse.”
“How much?”
“Fresh market grade down thirty-four percent.”
Martin removed his glasses.
“Avery.”
“I know.”
“Insurance?”
“Doesn’t cover most quality loss.”
“I know.”
She crossed her arms.
“Then why ask?”
“Because I need to hear your version before the committee reads the financials.”
Avery looked toward him.
“When?”
“December review.”
“That’s early.”
“Your operating line is out of compliance.”
She knew.
Cash-flow covenant.
The phrase had lived inside her skull for weeks.
Martin continued:
“The bank can waive it.”
“Can.”
“Yes.”
“Will?”
“I don’t know.”
Avery stared.
He softened.
“What are you doing about winter revenue?”
She almost said eggs.
Then decided not to hide it.
She showed him.
Egg invoices.
Feed costs.
Bird acquisition.
Projected winter production.
Orchard-management savings still preliminary.
Martin read for almost fifteen minutes.
“You’re making money on the chickens.”
“Barely.”
“This says seven hundred eighty dollars net last week.”
“Before my labor.”
“You don’t pay yourself anyway.”
“Thank you for the reminder.”
He smiled faintly.
Then looked toward the orchard.
“How many?”
“Four ninety-six.”
“I heard five hundred.”
“You heard correctly at purchase.”
“What happened?”
“One transport loss before pickup, one hawk, one unknown, one probably fox.”
Martin nodded as though chickens dying was the first normal thing she had said.
“You really think they’re helping the orchard?”