A sheep farmer ran a modest farm with a loyal new helper—a hardworking Frenchman unfamiliar with English or local customs. The job was tough, especially castrating aggressive male sheep to maintain herd quality. The Frenchman learned quickly, and together they worked efficiently, even developing a dinner tradition: eating the testicles—nicknamed “sheep fries”—fried by the farmer’s wife. To the Frenchman’s surprise, they were delicious.

As the days passed, the two formed a strong bond. Though the language gap persisted, they communicated through gestures and shared routines. Every evening ended with laughter and sheep fries, turning discomfort into familiarity.

But one evening, the fries tasted off—thin, salty, overcooked. The Frenchman ate in silence, trying not to offend. That night, he felt sick and unsettled. The next morning, jittery and nauseous, he confessed to the farmer that something felt wrong.

The farmer grew pale. “You mean… you didn’t know?” he asked.

“Know what?” the Frenchman replied, confused.

The farmer hesitated, then looked away. “The fries… they’re not just from the sheep.”

A stunned silence fell between them—an unspoken truth suddenly revealed, twisting their quiet bond with a haunting question:

What exactly had he been eating all this time?