Dale's backyard was small. Not tiny, just small. Maybe forty feet across, give or take. The fence was wood, painted white once, maybe ten years ago, but the paint had peeled in places and the wood had grayed and the whole thing leaned slightly to the left, like a man who had stopped standing straight.

The bees were in the corner, near the fence line. Three boxes, maybe four. Ray had told him once, over the fence, on a day when they were both standing outside doing nothing in particular. Three boxes, Ray had said. They're doing good this year.

Dale had nodded. He did not know much about bees. He knew they made honey and they stung and they were something Ray did, the way Dale used to work at the plant before it closed and before the layoffs and before everything became a series of days that looked exactly like the ones before them.

Ray's bees were not a problem. Not really. They buzzed, sometimes, in the evenings when the wind was right, and the sound would carry over the fence and into Dale's yard, and Dale would stand there for a moment and listen and then go inside and sit in his recliner and watch the same three channels on the same three stations and eat the same kind of sandwich he had been eating for months.

Kevin came by on a Saturday in May. He was twenty-six, same as always, wearing the same kind of clothes he always wore—jeans, a t-shirt, sneakers that had seen better days. He parked his car in the driveway, the same car it always was, a sedan with a dent in the passenger door and a radio that only picked up one station clearly.

"Hey, Dad," he said.

"Hey."

They stood in the driveway for a moment. Neither of them said anything. This was normal. It was always normal between them.

"I saw Ray's bees," Kevin said.

"Yeah."

"They're doing good."

"Yeah."

Kevin looked at the boxes. They were arranged in a neat row near the fence, dark wood against green grass, and the bees moved around them in thick clouds, their buzzing loud enough to hear from the driveway.

"I could help him," Kevin said.

"With what?"

"Nothing. Just— I don't know. Maybe carry something. Or fix something. He's got that thing on the third box that's been broken for a while."

Dale looked at him. Kevin was looking at the bees, his face turned toward them like a man looking at something he almost understands.

"Sure," Dale said.

Kevin went over the fence. He did not knock. He just walked up to Ray and said something Dale could not hear, and Ray nodded, and they stood together by the third box and Kevin reached inside and Ray watched and nodded again, and Dale stood in his driveway and watched them and felt something in his chest that he could not name and did not want to name.

It was not pride. It was not jealousy. It was something else, something that had no name in the language Dale knew.

In June, Dale went over the fence. He did not have a reason. He just went, carrying a bottle of weed killer he had bought from the hardware store three weeks ago and never used. The bottle was light, almost weightless. He held it in his hand and felt the weight of it and then set it down on the ground and walked away.

He did not use it. He did not need to. The weed killer stayed on the ground, near the fence line, and the bees buzzed, and the grass grew, and nothing happened.

In July, the bees died. Not all of them—just half. Ray told Dale this over the fence, on a day when they were both standing outside doing nothing in particular. Half the colony, Ray said. Don't know why. Maybe the weather. Maybe nothing.

Dale nodded. He did not know much about bees.

In August, Ray bought new boxes. Three more, he said. He arranged them in a neat row near the fence, dark wood against green grass, and the bees moved around them in thick clouds, their buzzing loud enough to hear from Dale's driveway.

Dale stood in his driveway and watched them and felt nothing. Or maybe he felt something. He was not sure. He had stopped being sure about things a long time ago.

In September, Dale's garden did not grow. The flowers he had planted in spring had died in July, quietly and without drama, the way things die when they have simply run out of time. The vegetables had done the same. The soil was red clay, like everywhere else in this part of Ohio, and it held water poorly and nutrients worse, and Dale had tried everything—compost, fertilizer, midnight trips to the garden center for products that promised resurrection and delivered nothing.

He stood at the fence and looked at Ray's garden. The new bees were active, thick as smoke around the flowering beds, and their buzzing was loud enough to hear inside the house, loud enough to hear in the silence between one breath and the next.

Ray looked at him over the fence. "How's the garden?"

"Fine."

"Fine."

They stood there for a moment. Neither of them said anything. This was normal. It was always normal.

In October, Kevin came by again. He parked his car in the driveway, the same car it always was, and walked up to the door and said, "Hey, Dad."

"Hey."

They stood in the driveway for a moment.

"I saw Ray's bees," Kevin said.

"Yeah."

"They're doing good."

"Yeah."

Kevin looked at the boxes. They were arranged in a neat row near the fence, dark wood against green grass, and the bees moved around them in thick clouds, their buzzing loud enough to hear from the driveway.

"I could help him," Kevin said.

"With what?"

"Nothing. Just— I don't know. Maybe carry something. Or fix something."

Dale looked at him. Kevin was looking at the bees, his face turned toward them like a man looking at something he almost understands.

"Sure," Dale said.

Kevin went over the fence. He did not knock. He just walked up to Ray and said something Dale could not hear, and Ray nodded, and they stood together by one of the boxes and Kevin reached inside and Ray watched and nodded again, and Dale stood in his driveway and watched them and felt nothing. Or maybe he felt something. He was not sure.

In November, the wind came from the north. It was cold and clean and carried no sound at all. Dale stood in his driveway and watched the bees and felt nothing.

In December, the snow came. It covered the garden and the fence and the bee boxes and the weed killer bottle, which had been sitting near the fence line since July and would probably sit there until spring, when it would rust and leak its contents into the soil and nothing would happen.

Dale went inside and sat in his recliner and watched the same three channels on the same three stations and ate the same kind of sandwich he had been eating for months and listened to the silence, which was the same as it had always been.

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