**Chapter 12: A Package from JA**
Kitano was halfway through his morning stretch when a slow, deliberate knock echoed from the front door.
"Hello, JA Hokkaido."
The voice was polite, almost too polite for this early hour. "Is Mr. Kitano home?"
Kitano froze, his sluggish morning thoughts snapping into focus. Debt collectors? Already? He hadn't heard of the agricultural cooperative making house calls for overdue payments. His mind spiraled—could they have outsourced to some shady group?
With a flicker of unease, he cracked open the door. A man in a crisp JA uniform stood there, a refrigerated truck idling conspicuously in the driveway.
"I'm Kitano," he said, stepping outside and offering a cautious nod.
"Good morning, Mr. Kitano," the man replied with a slight bow. "Two refrigerated express packages from JA Hokkaido have arrived." He gestured toward the truck, where another worker was already unloading two cardboard boxes.
"Oh," Kitano said, relief washing over him. It was just the order he'd placed through the system. Not debt collectors after all.
Two burly deliverymen carried the boxes into the house with practiced ease, setting them down gently.
"If everything looks correct, could you sign here?" the man asked, holding out a delivery slip.
"No problem." Kitano scribbled his name, then hesitated. "The shipping cost…?"
"Already covered by the consignor," the man said promptly.
Kitano exhaled again, tension easing from his shoulders.
The JA crew left as quickly as they'd come, their truck rumbling off into the morning. Kitano lingered in the quiet, brushing his teeth and washing his face at his usual unhurried pace before turning his attention to the packages.
The boxes were plain, unbranded, sealed only with JA's tape. He sliced them open with a utility knife, revealing the contents of the larger one first: a neatly packed assortment of forage, twenty kilograms exactly. Timothy Hay on the left, Bermuda Grass on the right, separated by a tidy cardboard divider. The symmetry was oddly satisfying, even for someone like Kitano, who'd never fussed over details like that.
He leaned closer, inspecting the vibrant green strands. A faint, fresh grassy scent drifted up—no yellowing, no browning, no hint of rot or mold. Premium stuff. He recalled what he'd studied about these grasses:
*Timothy Hay*, a cool-season grass from temperate regions, thrives in spring and autumn. Early harvests yield 12–14% protein, moderate fiber, and 2.2–2.4 Mcal/kg of metabolic energy. Its calcium-to-phosphorus ratio hovers around 3:1, with low sugar and starch, making it soft and easy to digest.
*Bermuda Grass*, a warm-season variety, grows in tropical and subtropical climates, tough enough for cold and heat. Early cuts offer 10–12% protein, 2.3–2.6 Mcal/kg of energy, and a balanced 1:1 calcium-to-phosphorus ratio. Its higher sugar content and denser fiber mean it can be tougher if harvested late.
But beyond their freshness, the forage raised questions. Crude protein, neutral and acid detergent fiber, total digestible nutrients, metabolic energy—none of that was specified. Nor were the mineral ratios, vitamin content, or risks like mycotoxins or bacterial contamination. No way was he feeding this "mystery product" to Mejiro Pegasus without proper testing.
He turned to the smaller box, which held neatly bundled hay. It was a uniform light yellow, with a clean, earthy scent. Kitano grabbed a handful, gave it a shake—no crumbs, no clumping. He stepped outside, lit a small bundle with a lighter, and watched it burn steadily, producing minimal smoke and no acrid smell. System Store hay, priced at a steep 250,000 yen, but undeniably top-notch.
"The hay can go straight to Nishiken Ranch," he muttered, "but the forage…"
After a moment's thought, he picked up his phone and dialed.
"Professor Furuya? Morning. Sorry to bother you."
Furuya, a longtime friend of Kitano's mentor, Professor Yamazaki, had spent decades perfecting local forage varieties.
"Kitano! Been a while," Furuya's warm voice crackled through. "What's this about? Not calling to brag about that horse of yours, are you?"
"No, no, that's all the jockey's doing," Kitano laughed. "I don't know the first thing about racing."
After a quick exchange of pleasantries, he got to the point. "I've got some forage I'd like to test in your lab. Full workup, including NIRS. Can you help?"
"Send it over," Furuya said without hesitation. "No trouble at all."
It'd take four or five days for results, but Kitano figured it was worth the wait. A twenty-kilogram box of forage cost him just one Green Amulet—basically half an hour of news-watching daily. Still, he tried not to dwell on the price. It stung.
He reheated last night's pasta in the microwave, wolfed it down, and gathered the forage samples and hay. First stop: Furuya's lab. Then, Nishiken Ranch.
The silver pickup truck rolled into the ranch under a wide, cloud-streaked sky. The Ogawa family was already bustling—foals to check, stables to clean.
"Good morning, Mr. Kitano," called Ogawa Kanna, pausing her inspection of the pasture's young horses. She gave a small nod, her dark hair catching the sunlight.
"Morning, Miss Ogawa. Feeling better?" Kitano asked, hefting the hay box from the truck.
"Thanks to you, I'm right as rain!" Kanna grinned, flashing two delicate fangs. "You're here for Pegasus, right? That colt's been strutting like he knows he won yesterday's race."
She suddenly spun toward the stable. "Masaru! Get over here!" Her voice boomed, startlingly loud for her slight frame.
"You're so loud!" Ogawa Masaru stormed out, wiping his hands on a towel. His scowl softened when he spotted Kitano. "Oh, Mr. Kitano. Didn't see you there."
He shot Kanna an annoyed glance, but she ducked behind Kitano, sticking out her tongue.
"Take Mr. Kitano to the stable already," she teased, pointing with a mischievous grin.
"Yeah, yeah," Masaru muttered, slinging the towel around his neck and trudging ahead, his steps heavy with mock irritation.
Kitano followed, the box of hay under his arm, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Just another morning at Nishiken Ranch.
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