Caleb pointed to the labels.
Marisol smiled.
“You tracked them.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
They separated equipment by history.
Boxes from colonies known to have died from starvation or queen loss were one category.
Boxes from unknown collapses were another.
Equipment showing suspicious scale or residue associated with serious bacterial brood disease was not casually reused.
Old comb of uncertain origin was discarded rather than transferred into new colonies.
Anything structurally rotten became scrap.
Marisol explained why.
“You don’t get points for saving a five-dollar box if you spread a disease through a thousand dollars’ worth of bees.”
Walt looked at Caleb.
“Write that down.”
Caleb did.
The salvage pile shrank.
At first that bothered him.
Then he understood.
The idea was not to turn every discarded object into treasure.
Some things were unsafe.
Some truly had finished their useful life.
What mattered was knowing the difference.
Out of more than forty boxes, twenty-three looked worth serious repair.
Another nine could provide boards or parts.
The rest were beyond reasonable use.
Caleb repaired joints.
Replaced rotten rails.
Built new bottom boards.
Made simple hive stands from pressure-treated scrap lumber his father had saved.
He replaced questionable frames with new ones rather than trying to reuse damaged comb.
Walt showed him how square equipment mattered.
“If the box twists, bees don't care.”
He set a carpenter’s square against one corner.
“But you will when you stack five pieces on top and nothing fits.”
Caleb began checking every repair.
Then came the question of bees.
Boxes alone did not make an apiary.
A five-frame nucleus colony from a reputable supplier cost real money.
Caleb had saved $640 from summer farm work and small engine repairs.
He could afford three nucs if he spent almost everything.
Thomas found him at the kitchen table with numbers written across three pages.
“How bad?”
Caleb looked up.
“What?”
“You make that face when numbers are bad.”
Caleb slid the page over.
“Nucs.”
Thomas read.
“You're spending all your savings.”
“Almost.”
“On insects.”
“Bees.”
“Those are insects.”
“Yes.”
Thomas kept reading.
“Equipment?”
“Mostly repaired.”
“Protective gear?”
“Borrowing Walt’s extra veil. Buying gloves.”
“Feed?”
“Budgeted.”
“Medication?”
“Depends.”
Thomas raised one eyebrow.
Caleb corrected himself.
“Mite treatments if thresholds require it.”
“Better answer.”
Caleb looked at him.
“You think I shouldn't?”
Thomas put the page down.
“I think if you spend six hundred dollars without knowing why, you're gambling.”
“I know why.”
“Then tell me.”
Caleb did.
Three colonies.
Not forty.
Learn on three.
Use repaired equipment.
Track everything.
If all three failed, the loss would hurt but would not put the farm at risk.
If they worked, he could potentially grow through splits and swarm catches later.
Thomas nodded.
“That's a plan.”
“So?”
“You don't need my permission.”
Caleb looked surprised.
“You're seventeen.”
“It’s your money.”
Thomas pointed toward the window.
“But if your bees start chasing your mother through the yard, they become my bees long enough for me to move them.”
Caleb smiled.
“Deal.”
The nucs arrived in May.
Walt came over before sunrise.
“Why so early?”
Caleb asked.
“Because bees don't care that teenagers prefer sleeping.”