He points at me. “I have other strengths.”
“Debatable,” Wyatt mutters.
“You’re all talk for someone about to get into a bee suit,” Jesse shoots back.
“It’s fine,” Wyatt says. “I understand animals. Bees are just… very tiny livestock.”
“With wings,” Jesse points out. “And weapons. I’ll keep an eye on the truck, the kids, and the shotgun,” he adds.
“Don’t listen to him,” I tell Wyatt. “As long as we move slowly and don’t jostle them, they’ll mostly just be confused.”
“Mostly?” Wyatt repeats.
“Eighty percent,” I say. “Ninety on a good day.”
He just looks at me.
I sigh. “I have a suit you can borrow.”
Marshall glances toward the west again.
“If we’re gonna do this, we should do it quickly.” He looks back at me. “You ready?”
I glance toward the back of the property, where my hives sit humming quietly.
No, I’m not ready.
But also, yes.
“Yes,” I say. “Let me grab the equipment.”
Moving several thousand bees turns out to be the perfect distraction from thinking about everything that could go wrong.
I lead the men around the house to the apiary, the familiar sight of my hives calming me: white boxes stacked neatly, each one with a brick angled just so on top to tell me what’s inside at a glance.
My girls are flying heavier than usual, their hum pitched high with unease.
“They’re already off,” I murmur, listening. “Too noisy for this time of day.”
“You can tell that just from the sound?” Wyatt asks.
“Bees have moods,” I say. “You learn the different hums. This is ‘what is happening and why don’t we like it?’”
“Relatable,” Jesse says.
I haul the spare bee suits off the hook in the shed and hand one to Wyatt. It’s just a little too short in the legs and tight in the shoulders, but it’ll do.
He wrestles with the zipper and the veil like they personally offended him.
“Here,” I say, stepping close. “You have to click the veil ring into the collar first, or you’ll leave a gap.”
His eyes widen behind the mesh. “Gaps sound bad.”
“Gaps are invitations,” I say. “We prefer no invitations.”
I fasten the veil properly, check the elastic at his wrists and ankles, then tug his gloves over the cuffs.
“There,” I say. “You’re sealed.”
