The Count at the Fork

YY reached the dogwood fork and immediately disliked how much it looked like a question.

Two paths. Fresh prints. Seed shells by the left turn, shining like someone had left an answer key on the ground.

"Suspiciously helpful," YY said.

He counted the shells anyway. Twelve halves, one whole, three crushed small. Then he ran the count to Mira before the wind could rearrange the evidence and make him sound dramatic.

Mira made a narrow mark in the ledger for the fork and a smaller mark for the shells. YY watched the point of the stick move. The left path became less of a temptation and more of a fact: someone had eaten there recently.

After the count was written, he took the left path on purpose. Not because it promised food. Because the ledger needed to know what the obvious sign was hiding.

It was hiding very little. A few clover leaves. One dry seed. A beetle that objected to being counted.

YY came home hungry enough to complain and pleased enough to do it softly. The fork had not fed him much, but it had become a place the ledger could recognize.