That night, Caleb opened the notebook.
For the first time, he wrote a business section.
Pollination.
Transport.
Fuel.
Hive strength standards.
Labor.
Risk.
Honey impact.
Timing.
Insurance?
Contract?
Thomas looked over his shoulder.
“You charging enough?”
“I don't know.”
“Then find out before saying yes.”
Marisol helped Caleb locate standard pollination agreements.
Walt explained the parts he had learned the hard way.
“Spell out bloom window.”
“Spell out pesticide notification.”
“Spell out access.”
“Spell out hive condition.”
“Never assume a grower remembers your bees are there when he calls the spray crew.”
That became one of Caleb’s nonnegotiable terms.
Communication around pesticide applications had to be clear.
The bees were livestock.
He would not place colonies without knowing how the orchard managed bloom-period treatments.
Amos agreed.
Winter arrived before the contract mattered.
And winter terrified Caleb.
Bees did not hibernate.
They clustered.
Generated heat through muscle activity.
Moved slowly through stored honey.
A colony could survive bitter cold if conditions were right.
Or die inches from food if it could not reach it.
Moisture was dangerous too.
Warm air rose from the cluster.
Condensation could form beneath covers.
Poorly managed moisture could chill bees.
Caleb prepared every colony carefully.
He assessed stores.
Made sure weak colonies received appropriate support.
Installed mouse guards.
Adjusted entrances.
Used weather-appropriate insulation and moisture management based on Walt’s experience and local guidance.
He recorded hive weights.
Then closed everything.
That was the worst part.
Waiting.
In December, Caleb walked through snow and put his ear near each box.
Sometimes he heard a faint hum.
Sometimes almost nothing.
Walt warned him:
“Don’t open them because you're scared.”
“I know.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Because you repeat yourself.”
“Because you need it.”
January.
February.
Cold.
One morning after heavy snow, Caleb found an entrance blocked.
He cleared it carefully.
Another colony seemed silent.
He stood there five minutes.
Nothing.
His stomach tightened.
Then a faint vibration.
Alive.
He laughed aloud.
By March, the first warm afternoon arrived.
Bees emerged.
Cleansing flights.
Orientation.
Movement everywhere.
Caleb opened the strongest colony.
Smaller than autumn.
But alive.
Queen laying.
Fresh brood beginning.
He checked the next.
Alive.
Another.
Alive.
He lost one small split.
That hurt.
The colony had entered winter weaker than it should have.
Caleb had combined numbers in his head and convinced himself it might make it.
Walt looked through the dead-out.
“No single disaster.”
“Too small.”
“Stores positioned badly.”
“Maybe moisture.”
Caleb stared.
“So I killed them.”
Walt shook his head.
“Careful.”