Dylan corrected himself.
“Bees made that in garbage boxes?”
Caleb smiled.
“Repaired boxes.”
Harlan dipped one finger into a drip.
Walt slapped his hand.
“Use a spoon.”
“You've been miserable since 1979.”
“Earlier.”
The harvest was a few hundred pounds.
Not a fortune.
Caleb bought Mason jars.
His mother designed simple labels on the family printer.
VOSS VALLEY HONEY.
He sold at the Saturday farmers market.
The first customer was Mrs. Alders, who ran the elementary school garden club.
She bought two jars.
“You’re the hive boy.”
Caleb hated that immediately.
“I guess.”
“My students want to learn about bees.”
Caleb froze.
Public speaking terrified him more than stings.
“Walt can come.”
From behind him, Walt said:
“No.”
Mrs. Alders smiled.
“I’ll call you.”
She did.
Caleb spent an entire evening preparing.
He brought an empty observation frame.
Protective veil.
Photographs.
No live bees.
Twenty-four children asked questions simultaneously.
“Do bees sleep?”
“Can queens sting?”
“Why is honey different colors?”
“Do bees know you?”
“What happens if the queen dies?”
“Can bees recognize faces?”
“Can I keep one in my bedroom?”
“No.”
That last answer Caleb gave immediately.
By the end, he was exhausted.
But three weeks later, Mrs. Alders established a pollinator garden at the school.
Clover.
Bee balm.
Asters.
Sunflowers.
Native flowering plants.
Caleb helped.
For the first time, he understood something beyond honey and orchards.
People protected what they noticed.
The orchard owners noticed next.
Detweiler Orchards had struggled with uneven fruit set for several seasons.
Not catastrophic.
Enough to matter.
Amos Detweiler had once kept three colonies himself.
After losing them over two winters, he quit.
He assumed pollination would take care of itself.
For a while it did.
Then certain blocks started producing less uniformly.
Marisol had encouraged habitat work and better pollinator planning.
Amos planted flowering margins.
Reduced unnecessary insecticide exposure during bloom.
Still, he wanted more managed pollination during the critical window.
He came to the Voss farm in September.
Found Caleb repairing a hive stand.
“You renting bees next spring?”
Caleb almost dropped the drill.
“What?”
“Pollination.”
Caleb looked toward Walt, who was sitting twenty feet away.
Walt did not help.
“How many acres?”
“Forty-two apples in the main block.”
Caleb's mind started calculating.
He did not have enough colonies.
Not yet.
“How many hives do you want?”
Amos told him.
Caleb shook his head.
“Can't do that many.”
“How many?”
“Maybe eight strong colonies.”
“Maybe?”
“Depends what survives winter.”
Amos stared.
Most teenagers would have said yes first and solved the problem later.
“You’re honest.”
“I don’t want to promise bees I don't have.”
Amos nodded.
“Eight if you’ve got them.”
Caleb swallowed.
“What are you paying?”
Amos smiled.
“Now you sound like a beekeeper.”