Wild Abandon

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“First off, the sky goes dark.”

“Of course it does.”

“Then they come out the ground and, if you’re a certain type of person, drag you under, where your body is consumed.”

They got to the gate of the pen and Kate opened it, letting her brother through first.

“And I’m guessing you are that type of person,” he said.

She slid the bolt back across while he ran ahead, his boots squelching in the mud. Walking on, she watched him duck under the low roof, slapping the wooden joist with his free hand as he went inside the shelter. At eleven years old, her brother awoke every day buzzing. Everything he saw in these first few hours — the gravestones of pets, log piles, frost — deserved a high five.

“I’m gonna milk the face off you,” Albert told the goats. “I’m going to milk you to death.”

He did resemble a trainee grim reaper, she thought, in his deep-hooded navy poncho, carrying a bucket to collect fresh souls. Following him into the shelter, she sat on a low stool next to Belona — her favorite goat, a four-year-old Alpine with white legs and a black, comma-shaped beard — who was against the back wall with her neck tied. She stamped her hooves as she ate from her feed pan. Belona was notoriously difficult in the mornings; this was part of her and Kate’s affinity.

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