In the heart of the Irish countryside, a milk boy does his daily rounds. He’s out before the sun rises, his feet pedalling with enthusiastic urgency, making the bottles on his makeshift wagon clink together like chimes on a windy summer’s day. 

He slows and stops in front of a cottage with chimneys that resemble goat horns. A small enclosure of bleating baby goats situated nearby makes Byrd imagine that the cabin is a giant mother goat watching over them. He whistles sharply, making the kids turn their heads toward him. The red front door opens as if on cue. A silver-haired man in a brown corduroy vest approaches him: his usual customer.

“Aye, lad! Milk still fresh?” He asks, as he claps the boy in the back affectionately, followed by an all-knowing wink—an exclusive code. 

“Yes, sir.” The boy replies, winking back.

He goes around to his wagon, lifts two hefty milk bottles bearing the label “SECWRIT’S MILK DELIVERY” and hands them over with a grin. The man pays him with a sterling and a crisp bill before bidding him on a careful journey.

The boy mounts his bike again and pedals onwards. 

This is Byrd’s daily morning pattern: pedal, stop, and deliver.

*****

In the heart of the Irish countryside, a milk boy does his daily rounds. At midday, when the scorching sun feels difficult to endure, he stops and sits underneath the willow tree beside the lake he passes by every day.

With a half-finished cheese sandwich on his lap and his flat cap angled down to shield his eyes from the blinding sunlight, he would smooth down the newspapers secretly tucked in his wagon’s false bottom with his hands. Whenever a patrol carriage or a local priest passes by, he replaces the wagon’s top layer, the bottles clinking loudly as he does so, concealing the newspaper stash from prying eyes. 

“Mornin’, boy! Taking a break, aren'tcha?” They would greet and ask.

Byrd would nod in respect and watch them press further into the distance, waiting for them to disappear on a turn down the road before feeling safe to expose his stash again. 

This is Byrd’s daily risk: discovery and punishment.

*****

In the heart of the Irish countryside, a milk boy does his daily rounds. By sundown, his wagon would be empty, and he would take the usual route back home. The clatter as it rode through uneven cobblestone is music to his ears—a sign of another successful day. 

He would pedal round to the back of their two-story boarding cottage. Miss Rachel, a sweet and stout lady who is more like a grandmother than a househelper, would greet him with a multitude of kisses before leading him inside and down to the basement where his father’s group works. 

“Byrd’s home!” they would exclaim, climbing down the stairs lined with sconces, patting his head in tender acknowledgement as he walked through their work tables and typewriters. His father would be hard at work on his workbench, painting the inside of milk bottles with white paint. He would greet his son with a warm hug and hand him his plate of warm dinner. 

This is Byrd’s favorite moment of the day: feeling the warmth of his father’s embrace, the belongingness in this tight-knit secret group, and the quiet realization of a purpose that gives meaning to every bottle he delivers.

*****

In the heart of the Irish countryside, a milk boy does his daily rounds. But first, he makes his bed, gets dressed, and takes his breakfast down in the basement as his father lays down his usual instructions that Byrd has memorized by heart. 

“Twenty-four bottles: twelve with real milk, twelve with no milk. Refer to the order sheet list for customers’ names and addresses. Extra newspapers are hidden at the bottom, just in case a customer asks for more than one copy. I've packed you a sandwich and a flask of water in your pack. Are you sure you want to go today, son?” 

“Yes, father,” he always responds.  

Byrd watches his father arrange the deliveries on his wagon. Dozens of real and fake milk bottles lined neatly in rows. Newspaper rolls tucked inside the fakes like secrets waiting to be unraveled, while extra paper copies play hide and seek inside the false bottom. This fatherly gesture: a sacred routine—an integral core memory of Byrd’s. He breathes in deep, taking in the busy basement scene: Father’s friends busy with their smoke pipes and typewriters, continuing what the country tries to suppress. 

This is Byrd’s daily reflection: Before he begins his round for the day, he thinks to himself, “If only they knew what my milk bottles bring.”