They had one unexpected advantage.

They loved the Sink.

Where cattle avoided the wet ground, the geese thrived.

They ate weeds.

They devoured insects.

They cleared reeds from the drainage channels.

As their feet moved constantly through the marshy areas, the ground began to change.

The channels Rowan had struggled to keep open remained clear.

Standing water drained faster.

The geese fertilized the poorest sections.

Weeks passed.

Then grass appeared where mud had always dominated.

Not ordinary grass.

Thick, dark green growth.

Rowan stood ankle-deep in the east pasture one morning and stared.

The land was improving.

Because of the geese.

News spread.

People began visiting.

Some pretending they were merely passing.

Others not bothering.

Amos Bell came twice.

The second time, he crouched near Rowan’s drainage ditch and pulled a clump of grass free.

“Well.”

Rowan folded her arms.

“That sounded painful.”

“What?”

“Admitting you were wrong.”

He glared at her.

“I didn’t say I was wrong.”

“You said ‘well.’”

“That ain’t an apology.”

“No, but for you, it’s close.”

Amos almost smiled.

Almost.

Then his expression changed.

“You selling birds?”

“Not yet.”

“You ought to.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got too many.”

Rowan looked across the field.

Hundreds of white-gray bodies moved between patches of bright grass.

“Maybe.”

Amos rubbed his jaw.

“My wife says goose down sells.”

“So does meat.”

“Christmas market.”

Rowan looked at him sharply.

He raised both hands.

“I’m only saying.”

She knew he was right.

If she raised the geese until winter, she could make more money than the Sink had produced in years.

Perhaps enough to repair the barn.

Perhaps enough to buy another acre.

Perhaps enough to breathe.

That night, she made calculations.

If two hundred birds survived…

If prices held…

If feed costs remained low…

She might earn more than eight hundred dollars.

It felt like a fortune.

Rowan slept better than she had in months.

The next morning, one of the geese disappeared.

She noticed immediately.

Rowan counted her flock every evening.

Two hundred and forty-two remained after natural losses.

That morning there were two hundred and forty-one.

She checked the fences.

No feathers.

No blood.

No coyote tracks.

Nothing.

The next morning, another disappeared.

Two days later, three more were gone.

Someone was stealing them.

Rowan began sleeping in the barn.

On the fourth night, she heard the gate creak.

She sat upright in the darkness.

The geese stirred.

A shadow moved near the south fence.

Rowan grabbed the shotgun her grandfather had left above the kitchen door.

She stepped outside.

“Stop.”

The shadow ran.

Rowan fired into the air.

The figure stumbled, then sprinted toward the trees.

Another shape waited beside a horse.

Within seconds, both vanished.

Rowan ran to the fence.

A goose lay tied inside a burlap sack.

Alive.

She carried it back toward the barn.

Then she saw something white caught beneath the fence wire.

A scrap of paper.

No.

A label.

Thick card stock.

Partly torn.

Printed in black ink.

NORTHSTAR WATERFOWL COMPANY

Beneath that:

LOT 17 — BREEDING STOCK

Rowan felt cold.

She took the label to Elias the next morning.

The moment he saw it, his face changed.

“Where did you get this?”

“Fence.”

“Last night?”

“Yes.”

He looked toward the freight office door, then locked it.

“Come inside.”

Rowan followed him.

Elias opened a ledger beneath the counter.

He flipped through several pages.

Stopped.

Then turned the book toward her.

There it was.

NORTHSTAR WATERFOWL COMPANY.

Shipment date: March 19.

Destination: Caldwell Flats.

Contents: 360 goose eggs.

Rowan stared.

“There were around three hundred and fifty.”