Tiny Flying Therapists #2
I stop a few feet from the hives and lift one hand. “Hello, my tiny striped overachievers in pollen pants.” I step closer. “Ladies, this is Charlie. She’s a friend. She can be trusted. She’s sleep-deprived and currently exhibiting the fortitude of a wet paper towel, but she means well.”
“I’m standing right here,” Charlie says.
“The bees value honesty.”
“I value not being slandered in front of insects.”
A bee drifts out from the entrance and circles once in front of Charlie’s veil before flying off.
Charlie goes completely still. “Was that a greeting or a warning?”
“Yes,” I say.
I puff a little smoke near the entrance of the south hive, then I wait.
The bees continue moving, alert but not frantic.
I ease off the outer cover and set it upside down on the grass, then remove the inner cover with the hive tool.
A warm, sweet smell rises from inside— rich and bright and earthy all at once.
“Oh, wow,” Charlie breathes. “That is incredible. I thought it would smell more like… fear.”
“That’s because most people who talk about bees only talk about running away from them, screaming.”
I loosen the first frame carefully and lift it free. Bees cover the comb in a living shimmer, moving over capped honey and open cells. I hold it over the hive body, slow and steady.
“This one’s mostly honey,” I say. “See the capped part? That waxy layer?”
Charlie leans in, then immediately remembers she is leaning toward thousands of bees and leans back. “I see it.”
“They seal it when the moisture content is right.”
“I appreciate a good sense of quality control.”
I inspect both sides of the frame, then slide it back into place. “This one stays.”
“Why? There’s honey on it.”
“We can’t just take it because it's full,” I say, more to the frame than to Charlie. “We only take what they can spare.”
I lift another frame, check the capped honey, then check another. The south hive is strong. Calm. Healthy. They have enough. Maybe more than enough, but I am careful because “more than enough” is not something you guess at. Not with bees. Not when their winter depends on what you leave behind.
I slide the frame back and move to the next. This one is almost fully capped. Heavy, golden, clean. A frame I can take without hurting the hive. I smile. “Okay, this one can come with us.”
Charlie straightens as if her bee assistant role has just been activated. “What do I do?”
“Hold the lid to the nuc box open. And don’t panic.”
“First part, no problem. Second part? Sounds a little ambitious, but I’m willing to try.”
I brush bees gently back into the hive, then set the frame into the box I brought for transport.
Charlie lowers the lid quickly, as instructed, then looks at me as if she just assisted in surgery. “I was magnificent.”
I grin at her, then I check the brood pattern, spot eggs and larvae, and make sure the queen is laying well. I don’t see her, but I don’t need to. Her presence is written everywhere—in the neat pattern, in the steady work, in the calm hum of the colony.
Charlie lasts exactly seven minutes as a beekeeper before her first security incident. To her credit, she does not scream.
“Reese,” she says, her voice sounding wary, “we have a perimeter breach.”
I lower the frame very, very carefully.
Charlie has gone still beside the south hive, one gloved hand still hovering in the air, her whole body locked in the posture of a woman who has just discovered that her courage was only theoretical.
Her eyes are enormous behind the mesh. A single honeybee crawls along the inside of her veil, wandering across the screen in front of her nose.
“Huh,” I say.
“We need an extraction plan,” she hisses.
“Okay, just don’t swat at it.”
“I would never.” Her voice is reverent with terror. “I respect her work. But I also need her to leave my face room.”
I press my lips together.
“Do not laugh,” Charlie says.
“I’m not.”
“Your shoulders are laughing.”
“Only because I’ve never heard it called a ‘face room.’ But I like it.”
The bee crawls higher, and Charlie inhales sharply. In what could only be called a terrified whisper, she hisses, “She’s advancing.”
“She’s exploring.” I get the frame back into the hive and close the cover enough that the bees won’t be offended by our drama. “And she can tell when you’re freaking out even if it’s not loud.”
Charlie takes a few slow breaths in an attempt to calm herself. “She has rejected the terms of our border agreement.”
“I know. Just step back slowly.”
Charlie takes one exaggeratedly careful step backward, as if the entire yard has become a laser grid. “Tell my mother I was brave in the face of an airborne assailant with a built-in weapon system.”
“You are being very brave.”
“Tell Owen I died with excellent posture.”
“I will tell him about the excellent posture. But you are not dying.” I guide Charlie away from the hive and unfasten the veil at the back of her jacket before lifting it gently. The bee floats out as if she has simply finished touring the facility.
Charlie’s eyes follow it across the yard.
For three full seconds, neither of us moves as Charlie breathes heavily.
Then she points at the departing bee. “That was psychological warfare.” I can feel Charlie’s eyes on me as I’m finishing up with the south hive.
Eventually, she says, “You’re different out here. With them. You’re very… settled.”
I nod slowly. “That’s because bees reward inner peace and punish flailing about.”
“They’re like tiny flying therapists.”
“With stingers.”
“Well, the best therapists do set boundaries.”
I laugh, but Charlie keeps watching me. “You’re calm. Focused. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Bees tell you what they need.”
“So do people,” Charlie says. “Sometimes by checking their phone five times since leaving the apartment.”
My attention flies to Charlie. “I did not.” My voice sounds way too defensive. Especially for someone who’s trying to exhibit inner peace.
Charlie ticks off on her gloved fingers. “You checked once while unlocking the car.”
“That barely counts.”
“Once at a stop sign, and once at a stop light.”
“I was verifying the time.”
“You checked again in your mom’s driveway. And you checked once more before you put on your second glove.” She rests one hand on the side of the hive box. “You miss Miles.”
I reach for the smoker and give the hive a gentle puff, even though they don’t really need it. I need it. Apparently, my emotional support smoke machine has multiple uses. “When your best friend gets pulled into a weird work emergency and disappears for a day, you worry. That’s normal.”
“Absolutely.”
“It is friendship concern.”
“Classic.”
I lift the last frame I want to check and hold it between us. Bees crawl over capped honey that’s golden in the low sun. “I can miss him without it being a thing.”
Charlie says nothing, but I can practically feel the look she’s giving me. I sigh. “What?”
“Are we still pretending you and Miles are a strictly best-friend situation?”
Something in my chest jumps hard enough that I almost tighten my grip on the frame. I force my hands to stay gentle. “It’s not pretending,” I say. “It is the reality.”
“Is it?” Charlie looks at the frame, then at me. “If it helps, I’m not saying you should do anything. I’m saying maybe it makes sense that you miss him this much.”
I set the inner cover on the hive, then the outer cover, making sure everything is aligned.
The bees continue moving in and out below us, calm despite the disruption.
I wish I could be more like them. Disturbed for a few minutes, then back to work.
No spiraling. No overthinking. I start toward the shed, and Charlie follows, slower this time.