“They’re fine for a short ride,” I assure him. “We don’t block everything, just enough to keep them contained. If we took hours and hours, it’d be a problem. But we’re only going across to the ranch.”
Once the first hive is secure, I brace my hands against the stand.
“These boxes are full of brood and honey,” I say. “So heavy. We’ll do a slow, even lift. No jerking. Keep it level so the frames don’t slam.”
“And if we drop it?” Wyatt asks.
“We won’t,” I say. “Right?”
He swallows. “Right.”
We squat together, slide our hands under the bottom board, and lift. The weight hits immediately, a dense, living heaviness that pulls at my shoulders. I’ve done this a hundred times, but it still demands respect.
Wyatt grunts softly. “Okay,” he says. “That’s… not light.”
“Don’t think about it as weight,” I say through my veil, adjusting my grip. “Think of it as sixty thousand very judgmental passengers.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Then don’t drop them.”
He huffs out something similar to a laugh.
We walk in slow, measured steps toward the waiting truck, Marshall pacing beside us, ready to take some of the load at the last second.
Bees crawl over the outside of the box, confused but not panicking, brushing against my gloves and veil. I murmur to them as we go, nothing words in a calm tone.
“That’s it, girls,” I say. “Just a little trip. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“Do they really understand you?” Wyatt asks, strained with effort.
“Not the words,” I say. “But they read calm. And they read fear. We’re aiming for the first one.”
“What am I radiating?” he manages.
“Currently? Mild hysteria,” I say. “But your hands are steady. That’s what matters.”
We reach the truck. Marshall steps in, taking some of the hive’s weight as we guide it into place. Once it’s sitting level on the bed, my arms tremble with relief.
“That’s one,” I say, a little breathless. “Three more for tonight.”
Wyatt rolls his shoulders, breathing hard inside the suit. “That weighs more than a Great Dane.”
“You lift Great Danes into trucks often?” I ask.
“You’d be surprised.”
We repeat the process with the remaining hives: smoke, strap, plug, lift, carry, load. My muscles burn, sweat tricklesdown my back, and I can feel a few stray bees crawling over my veil, but they’re not stinging.
“Is this the usual time of day you move the bees? If you have to, that is?” Wyatt asks at one point, as we prepare the third hive.
I nod. “More foragers are home this time of day,” I say. “If we moved them mid-day, we’d strand thousands of workers in the field. They’d come back to an empty spot and burn through their energy looking for the hive. This way, most of the colony moves together and can reorient.”
“Reorient?”
“Bees learn where home is by flying patterns in front of the hive,” I explain. “They memorize the landmarks, the sun angle, the scent of the place. When we put them somewhere new, they’ll do orientation flights again. Big looping spirals in front of the boxes. Looks mad, but it’s just… them learning.”
He goes quiet. “You really love them.”
