His grandfather had underlined paragraphs in pencil.
Toby spent evenings with a laptop beside books printed before he was born.
He learned the names of pests he had previously known only as damage.
Apple maggot.
Codling moth.
Plum curculio.
San Jose scale.
Mites.
Aphids.
Leafrollers.
He learned that different pests survived winter in different ways.
Some beneath bark.
Some inside fallen fruit.
Some in leaf litter.
Some in soil.
Some would never be touched by chickens.
That disappointed him.
Then it interested him.
Because the idea became more precise.
He stopped asking:
Can chickens control orchard pests?
That question was too big.
Instead:
Which orchard pests might chickens encounter while foraging beneath trees?
Then:
Could their scratching reduce habitat or expose stages of insects that would otherwise survive?
Then:
If pest control were only one effect, what other work could the birds do?
That question changed everything.
The orchard floor required management.
Leaves.
Drops.
Weeds.
Vegetation.
Organic debris.
The chickens required feed.
They produced manure.
They scratched.
They ate insects.
They also produced eggs, even if the old birds laid less than younger hens.
Toby saw separate expenses beginning to overlap.
He did not know whether the overlap saved enough money to matter.
That was what he wanted to test.
The first person he told was Daniel.
They were repairing a damaged deer fence in late March.
“Toby.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve been staring at that same post for five minutes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
Toby ignored him.
“What if we put chickens in the orchard?”
Daniel kept pulling wire.
“No.”
“You didn’t ask why.”
“I know why.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You think chickens will eat bugs.”
“Partly.”
Daniel stopped.
“Partly?”
Toby explained.
Not elegantly.
He talked too fast.
Pest cycles.
Leaf litter.
Fallen apples.
Feed.
Manure.
Rotations.
Untreated comparison sections.
By the end, Daniel leaned against the fence post.
“You’ve been reading.”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“Three weeks.”
“That explains why your math homework looks terrible.”
“It’s done.”
“Barely.”
Toby waited.
Daniel shook his head.
“Chickens are not going into the orchard.”
“Why?”
“Because apples pay bills.”
“Not last year.”
The words came out before Toby could stop them.
Daniel’s face changed.
Toby immediately regretted it.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
“I’m not saying you did anything wrong.”
Daniel went back to the fence.
“This isn’t school, Toby.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get a bad grade if an experiment fails.”
“I know.”
“You lose trees.”
“Maybe.”
“You lose time.”
“Maybe.”
“You spend money.”
“I know.”
Daniel turned.
“And you’re fifteen.”
Toby looked down.
That one hurt.
Not because it was unfair.
Because it was true.
“I’m not asking you to bet the orchard.”
“What are you asking?”
“Four acres.”
Daniel laughed.