Page 47 of Night Shift

“No,” I say.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Whatever you’re about to say, no.”

“What this town needs is normalcy.”

“What this town needs is the sun.”

“Well, until your boyfriend pulls his head out of his celestial ass, we have to improvise.”

“He’s not my⁠—”

Petra gives me a look.

I sigh. “Fine.”

She slaps both hands onto her knees.

“Moonlight Yoga by the Bay.”

The room goes quiet.

Mrs. Garcia nods slowly.

“The goats would like that.”

“The goats don’t get a vote.”

“They’ve had a difficult week.”

“So have I.”

Within twenty minutes, Petra has appointed herself event coordinator, Mrs. Garcia has volunteered the goats for emotional support, and somebody has agreed to print flyers.

Blackthorn has responded to the breakdown of the natural world exactly as Blackthorn responds to everything else.

We’re making it a community event.

Moonlight Yoga by the Bay is advertised with the casual cultishness of a suburban wine tasting.

Petra’s flyers appear everywhere: Ghoulish Grinds, City Hall, the grocery store, even the ancient maple tree in the town square. Each is pinned up with tiny golden-goat pushpins Mrs. Garcia apparently ordered in bulk.

The turnout is better than I expect.

Nearly a hundred people gather along the grassy stretch above the marina in pajamas, yoga pants, sweatshirts and last-ditch athleisure. Somebody has strung battery-powered lanterns along the boat ramp, and the moon hangs above the bay like an enormous spotlight.

Mrs. Garcia arrives with four pygmy goats on leashes.

Bean and Chorizo are among them.

Their horns have been wrapped in neon hair bands, making them look faintly radioactive.

“Why?” I ask.

“Visibility.”

I decide that's reasonable under the circumstances.