The office was small, cramped, the kind you’d miss if you didn’t know to look for it. I was there to meet Paul, the farm manager, about a discrepancy in the accounts. “It’s probably nothing,” he’d said over the phone, but his tone suggested otherwise. On the desk between us lay an old leather-bound ledger, its pages yellowed with age. “March 15th, 2021,” Paul pointed out, tapping a finger on the page. “That’s the date everything changed.” I nodded, absorbing the information, trying not to let my surprise show. “You see,” Paul continued, his voice low, “it’s not just about the eggs.” My mind raced, wondering what he’d uncovered, and why he’d chosen to tell me of all people. The room was silent except for the ticking of a wall clock, a constant reminder that time was of the essence. I glanced at the ledger again, the numbers blurring together. “So, what now?” I asked, trying to project calm despite the unease settling in my stomach.
