The ruts had softened overnight. She felt them through the steering wheel, the truck pulling left where the road wanted to be a creek. February, and the frost was already leaving the upper inches of dirt on Quarry Hill Road. Her headlights caught standing water in the low spots. She'd put the snow tires on in November and hadn't needed them since New Year's.

The five-gallon bucket rode shotgun, still warm. She'd mixed it at four that morning, standing at the stove in long underwear, two parts sugar, one part water, stirring until the crystals dissolved and the kitchen windows fogged. The spoon left a trail on the surface that closed slowly. The bucket ticked as it cooled.

She parked where the logging track met the meadow and sat with the engine off. Dawn came in gray, the kind of light that flattened distances. The hives stood at the south edge, eight white boxes against brown grass that should have been under a foot of snow. The ground was saturated. Her boots sank with each step, cold water pressing through the seams at the toe.

She could hear them before she reached the first box. Something thinner than the summer roar, drawn tight, a sound like wire pulled through softwood. Bees were flying short loops in front of the entrance, landing on the alighting board and walking in circles before going back inside. Landing and circling. Landing and circling.

She pressed her ear to the wood. The cluster had moved up. She could hear it in the pitch, concentrated under the inner cover, that particular tight hum of bodies pressed together and burning through stores. They'd eaten through the frames below.

She lit the smoker, gave two slow puffs at the entrance, waited. Cracked the outer cover.

The smell came first. Warm wax, propolis with its resinous bite, the faintly acidic breath of ten thousand bodies metabolizing sugar. Bees covered the top bars, moving with the jerky urgency of early brood-rearing. She lifted a frame. Light. Too light. The capped honey was gone from the upper corners. In the center: brood. Fresh eggs standing upright in their cells like pins in a cushion. Larvae curled white and glistening in open comb, each one translucent against the dark wax. The queen was laying.

She set the frame back and looked out across the meadow. Nothing was blooming. Nothing would bloom for weeks. The red maples along the creek might push buds by mid-March if the warmth held, but dandelion, clover, apple blossom were April at the earliest.

She filled a mason jar from the bucket, screwed on the perforated lid, and inverted it over the hole in the inner cover. Syrup beaded at the tiny openings, amber in the flat light. Within seconds, bees clustered underneath, tongues working the drops. She pressed the outer cover down against the slight resistance of the jar.

Next hive. Same. Clusters high and hungry, brood started, stores nearly gone.

At the fourth box she straightened, pressing her fists into the small of her back. Across the valley, the Pelletier place sat quiet. Marc had sold the sugarbush last spring. Forty acres of mature maples, the vacuum tubing still strung between them. She didn't know who'd bought it. Down the road, the Winslow orchard had put in two rows of peach trees the previous fall, wrapped in white guards against the deer. Peach trees, in Addison County. The saplings had survived January without covering.

She didn't hesitate anymore, mixing the syrup. Her hands knew the ratio. She ordered queens in January now, ran sugar water out before dawn, checked brood in what used to be the dead of winter. The steps had become morning chores.

The last hive was the strongest. Heat came through the wood before she opened it. Inside, the cluster spilled across six frames, the brood pattern dense and concentric, thousands of cells of sealed pupae darkening toward emergence. A healthy colony doing exactly what healthy colonies do when the air warms. She watched a forager crawl to the entrance, lift into the gray light, circle twice, and come back. It walked to the edge again. Lifted. Circled. Returned. Its abdomen pulsed with breathing. There was nowhere for it to go.

She set the jar and closed the cover.

On the drive back, the truck found the same ruts. The bucket was half empty, riding lighter. She'd mix more tonight. She'd mix it again tomorrow, and the day after, until something bloomed or the cold came back or neither happened and there was another morning and another bucket on the seat beside her.

Syrup had dried on her fingers to a thin glaze. It tightened each time she gripped the wheel.