“No.”
“Two.”
“No.”
“One.”
“Toby.”
“Let me test it.”
Daniel shook his head.
“An idea isn’t a result.”
“I know.”
“That sentence usually ends conversations.”
“It’s why I need the test.”
Daniel looked at him.
The boy was not trying to win.
That mattered.
Toby continued.
“I’ll leave control rows.”
“What?”
“Rows with no chickens.”
Daniel frowned.
“So I can compare.”
“To what?”
“Insects. Ground cover. Cleanup. Feed. Labor.”
“You’re going to measure labor?”
“Yeah.”
“Your own?”
“Yeah.”
“How much is your time worth?”
Toby hesitated.
Daniel almost smiled.
“See?”
“I’ll use minimum wage.”
“Your mother would object.”
Toby smiled slightly.
His mother, Rachel Mercer, worked three days a week at the county clinic and managed the farm stand during harvest.
She was not part of the argument because she had wisely learned that Daniel and Toby reached better conclusions if allowed to exhaust themselves first.
Daniel looked toward the orchard.
“We don’t own two hundred chickens.”
“I found some.”
His father turned slowly.
“What does that mean?”
“Old layers.”
“Where?”
“Nelson County egg operation is culling birds.”
“How do you know that?”
“Eli Nelson is in my biology class.”
Daniel stared.
“How much?”
“Dollar each if we take at least a hundred.”
“That is still two hundred dollars.”
“I have three hundred forty-six.”
Daniel blinked.
“Since when?”
“Birthday money.”
“You’re not spending your savings on chickens.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re supposed to use it for something useful.”
Toby said nothing.
Daniel realized what he had said.
“That came out wrong.”
“A little.”
Daniel rubbed his face.
“Your mother is going to blame me for whatever happens.”
“Probably.”
Ultimately, Toby did not get two acres.
He got one and a half.
And not because Daniel believed the idea.
Because Daniel believed something else.
If Toby was going to become the kind of person who tested ideas, Daniel wanted him to learn how to test them properly.
“You get three weeks,” Daniel said.
Toby stared.
“Really?”
“Trial period.”
“Okay.”
“You pay for the birds.”
“Okay.”
“You build fencing with what we have.”
“Okay.”
“If they damage the trees, they’re out.”
“Okay.”
“If predators start taking them faster than you can protect them, they’re out.”
“Okay.”
“If your schoolwork drops—”
“Dad.”
“Out.”
“Fine.”
“You document everything.”
“I was going to.”
“Everything.”
Daniel pointed toward him.
“Feed. Time. Dead birds. Broken equipment. Not just the things that make your idea look good.”
Toby nodded.
“And if after three weeks it’s wasting money?”
“I stop.”
Daniel studied him.
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you still think it might work?”
Toby hesitated.
Then nodded.
“If the numbers are bad.”
That answer earned him the acre and a half.
Harland Pike heard about it through Daniel.
Harland was not an enemy.
That would have made things simpler.
He was fifty-seven and had spent most of his adult life advising growers.
He knew orchards.
He knew disease.
He knew pests.
He knew spray schedules, resistance management, fertilizer plans, fruit-thinning strategies, and the economics of getting apples to market.
And unlike some consultants, Harland actually cared whether growers survived.
His concern with Toby’s idea was not that it came from a child.
Not entirely.