That was how the first week went. Vera repaired a fence, hauled water, inventoried grain, and watched the chicks with an attention she had not given any animal in years. She weighed them on a kitchen scale lined with a cloth and marked the results for each bird using tiny colored thread bands that could be changed as their legs grew. The differences between the birds became visible almost immediately: one was bolder, two ate more quickly, and a smaller pullet insisted on sleeping at the outer edge of the group. Vera gave them numbers rather than names, telling herself that records remained more useful when sentiment did not get into them.
On Saturday morning Daniel Alderman appeared at the north fence just as she was carrying a water bucket toward the barn. He had appeared at that fence so regularly since her father's funeral that the sight of him had become part of the weekly rhythm, like the mail wagon or the co-op delivery truck. He was tall and lean, with dark blue eyes, sun-roughened hands, and the worried expression he adopted whenever Vera was doing something he believed might have consequences she had overlooked. He rested an elbow on the top rail and watched her approach.
"I heard you bought chicks from Whitfield," he said.
"Twelve," Vera answered. "Blue-white. Some kind of cross."
"Blue-white?"
"Almost silver in the sun."
Daniel removed his hat and looked at her more closely. "You spent money on chickens nobody can identify?"
"Six dollars."
He repeated the sum slowly. "Six dollars."
Vera knew that tone. The whole county knew she'd sold pigs in November, and Daniel had helped her repair a broken plow a month earlier without taking payment. He had seen the empty grain bins and knew enough about the planting season to estimate what six dollars must mean. His concern was genuine, which made it more difficult to endure than contempt. She lifted the bucket a little higher and prepared to walk past him.
"They're alert," she said. "The eyes are different. You can see it."
"Vera."
"I know. I know what the account looks like, and I know what feed costs. Come back in the fall and tell me I was wrong."
Daniel pressed his lips together, then looked toward the barn. "I could at least see them," he offered.
She had expected an argument and found herself briefly disarmed by the change. "They haven't done anything yet worth showing," she said. "Come back when they have."
He did not push. Daniel had been careful around her for two years, sometimes so careful that his kindness sounded like permission being requested from someone who had never asked to be protected. He set his hat back on his head and stepped away from the rail. "I hope you're right," he said.