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.
