They came in several loads of borrowed crates.
Some were reddish-brown.
Some white.
Some mottled.
Feathers were worn from commercial housing.
A few birds looked almost embarrassed by daylight.
Toby paid very little for them compared with younger hens.
Even so, Daniel watched every dollar.
Toby spent the next several days preparing.
He could not afford a polished mobile poultry system.
So he built one from farm leftovers.
Old woven-wire fencing.
Salvaged lumber.
Two discarded wagon wheels.
A bent gate.
Roofing panels removed from a shed.
He designed small movable shelters where the hens could roost and get out of rain.
He built crude fence panels light enough to drag by hand.
Nothing matched.
Nothing was square.
One shelter leaned slightly left no matter how many times he adjusted it.
Harland saw the setup during a visit to the co-op.
Daniel mentioned the experiment.
Harland stared.
“You actually let him?”
“Four rows.”
Harland laughed.
“Daniel, I’m begging you.”
“I’m not replacing the treatment yet.”
“Good.”
“Toby wants numbers.”
Harland shook his head.
“He’s fifteen.”
“He knows.”
“He knows enough to create work.”
That was when Harland agreed to come see it.
He arrived the April morning Toby opened the gate.
Now, as the hens scratched beneath the trees, Harland finished laughing and walked toward the first row.
He crouched beside Toby.
“What did she find?”
Toby pointed to the disturbed leaves.
“Larva.”
“What kind?”
“Not sure yet.”
Harland smiled slightly.
“At least you said that.”
Toby looked at him.
Harland stood.
“Here’s your first lesson.”
“Chickens will eat bugs.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re eating the bug that costs your father money.”
Toby nodded.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Harland studied him.
“Then prove it.”
That challenge shaped the next three months.
Toby carried a notebook everywhere.
He divided the test area into numbered sections.
C1 and C2 became chicken-managed rows.
U1 and U2 remained untreated control rows.
He marked trees.
Recorded weather.
Noted soil condition.
Counted hens each morning and evening.
Recorded feed.
Eggs.
Labor.
Fence repairs.
Anything unusual.
He used simple traps and visual inspections recommended by extension materials to compare pest activity.
He checked fallen fruit.
Leaf litter.
Bark.
The ground beneath trees.
Most observations were crude by research standards.
But Toby tried to be consistent.
Consistency mattered more than sophistication.
The first week seemed promising.
Hens scratched aggressively beneath the trees.
They turned leaves.
Pecked insects.
Broke apart old fallen fruit.
Spread manure in small amounts as they moved.
Toby became excited.
Then the first real problem arrived.
He walked out one morning and immediately knew something was wrong.
The birds were too quiet.
He counted.
Then counted again.
Eight missing.
A fence corner had been pushed down.
Tracks marked the soft ground outside.
Daniel came over.
“Fox?”