Mike Archer stood at the edge of the wheat field as the last of the light drained out of the sky, notebook open, boots sunk a little in the loose soil. The numbers had been circling in his head for weeks, and now they were settling into something that felt unavoidable. He had spent years around bones—fossil ones, mostly—reading the long record of life and death written into rock. Living animals were different. These were the ones still running around under the grain. Every few years the mice arrived in force. Not a scattering, but a plague: hundreds to a thousand per hectare in the worst seasons, dense enough that you could hear the rustle when you walked the rows. Farmers poisoned them. There was little choice; the grain would otherwise vanish into the burrows. Archer had pulled the figures together from the CSIRO data and the plague records. Average it out, account for the four-year cycle, the fraction of land baited, the kill rate once the baits went down. It came to something on the order of a hundred mice dead per hectare each year just to keep the wheat growing. He did the protein math next, because that was the only fair comparison. A hectare of wheat, average yield, usable protein fraction. Then the same exercise for a steer raised on the rangelands that would not grow crops anyway—native grasses, sparse cover, one animal delivering a carcass that translated into tens of kilograms of protein. Two animals, maybe a couple more when you counted the occasional losses, for every hundred kilos of usable protein from the cattle. Fifty-odd mice for the same amount from the grain. He closed the notebook. The ratio sat there, stubborn: roughly twenty-five times more sentient deaths on the grain side, at least under Australian conditions and the numbers he could defend. It was not a defense of every feedlot or every industrial barn. It was narrower than that—rangeland cattle versus the mice that died so the vegetarian plate could stay free of them. Still, it inverted the usual story. Archer walked back toward the vehicle. The field looked empty now, the grain cut, the stubble pale. Somewhere under it, or already scavenged, were the mice that had not made it through the season. He had no particular fondness for the argument he was about to make public. It complicated things people preferred simple. But the count was the count, and he had spent too long reading the dead to pretend the living ones did not leave a record too. The piece would run under a blunt title. Someone would call it a provocation. He already knew that. What he had not yet decided was how many of the people who read it would actually check the arithmetic before they answered.