On the third Saturday they hung the final door, tested the nesting boxes, and swept the floor clean. The finished coop smelled of fresh boards and warm September dust, and light entered the windows in stripes that moved slowly over the floor as the afternoon passed. Vera stood inside with the notebook in her hand, counting how many birds could be housed comfortably without overcrowding them. It was not large enough for the full operation she imagined, but it was a beginning sturdy enough to support the next stage.
"Well?" Daniel asked from the doorway.
"The ventilation's better than my original plan," she admitted. "And the door opens the right way."
"High praise."
"Don't become accustomed to it."
He leaned against the frame, looking pleased in a quiet way that had nothing to do with being praised. "What are you putting in here first?"
"Young birds, if I can raise them. The breeding pen will remain separate from the layers until I know what the eggs are doing."
That question brought them to the problem Vera had been studying for weeks. All twelve of Whitfield's birds were female, and without a rooster the eggs were food, not future chickens. She could have borrowed a rooster from any neighboring farm, but she wanted better information about inheritance than such a choice would provide. If the color and egg traits came from a particular line, using an unrelated male might give her chicks that looked promising while concealing a loss of the qualities she hoped to preserve. She needed either a male from the source flock or a carefully documented breeding trial that could tell her something useful.
The man in Wichita was not easy to find. Whitfield remembered a first name, a street, and the color of the pickup the fellow drove, none of which amounted to an address. Vera wrote two letters based on the scant information and sent them through the dealer's last known contact. One came back undelivered, and the other took three weeks to produce an answer written on the back of a grain company's invoice. The Wichita seller said he had no more pullets, but he knew where two young males from the same shipment had gone and could inquire whether either owner was willing to sell.
Vera read that letter several times. She had spent months watching twelve hens and had forgotten how much the next stage depended on animals she had not yet seen. The answer also reminded her that rare stock was not necessarily unique stock, and that someone else might be raising the same birds without recognizing their value. She sent another letter offering to pay for a healthy young rooster if its history could be traced to the same Missouri source, and she added enough money for return postage. It was a small expense, but the envelope felt heavier than its contents when she placed it in the mailbox.
While she waited, Martha's egg sales grew steadily. The general store had never offered luxury foods in the manner of the stores in Wichita, but customers began asking for Vera's eggs by name. Martha made sure they understood the difference in price, and those who purchased them usually came back.