Roy made the long walk back home--Konk tucked into his pack, head poking out and honking at regular intervals.

The village of Sproutmere —as the settlers called it, though the sprouts were few and far between—came into view. Rows of moss-brick cottages and dome-shaped greenhouses clustered together, surrounded by scrubland and fading starter-kit tech.

His father, Brenn, met him at the gate.

“Back already? And what in the stars is that noise?” Brenn asked, eyes falling on Konk.

“A bird,” Roy said proudly. “We’ll need a pen.”

With Brenn’s help, they built a small enclosure from mushroom wood slats, flexible but sturdy. Konk seemed unimpressed, pacing the pen’s edge and honking furiously at every passerby.

---

Roy fetched an old, rust-flaked shovel from the shed. It had belonged to his grandmother—one of the first settlers. He took it to the fallow patch behind their home, ignoring the gathering neighbors.

"It can’t be done," they whispered. "Broot don’t grow from seed."

But Roy followed the Lady Motherroot’s dream.

He broke the soil, divided the chunks of broot flesh into pebble-sized pieces, and planted them carefully. Beside each, he sowed several of the glossy black seeds.

The work took days.

The gawking took longer.

---

Weeks passed.

Konk honked.

Loudly. Constantly.

Until one day, another bird appeared at the edge of the field—a frosty mint-green spoonbill, curiously bold. Roy figured one must be male and one female, though he had no idea how to tell.

Until the mint-green bird laid an egg.

---

The news spread like wildfire.

"Roy’s got livestock now! And they producin’!"

"Roy caught his own flock of birds!"

"Eggs!" gasped Roy’s mother, clutching her chest. She pulled down Grandma’s cookbook—the one with sections on eggs—but she had never actually seen one. Not in her whole life.

The egg sat on the kitchen table like a miracle.

Roy smiled. He wasn’t done yet.

But he was off to a good start.

Roy knew this was only the beginning. 

The wilds of Schmoo had more secrets to share—and he wasn’t done listening.

It was time to  pack a satchel and strap his boots back on.

Mother Root was whispering on the wind again. 

The wilds were calling.