Page 30 of The Goat Next Door

I jump, nearly dropping the brush. Marge is standing in the doorway, holding a tray of proofed sourdough loaves.

“The tracks don’t need brute force,” she says, walking over and snatching the brush from my hand. She demonstrates, using a rhythmic, light motion. “It’s not a battle. You have to dissolve the paste with the vinegar first, let it sit, then wipe. You’re just wearing yourself out for nothing.”

“Sorry,” I say, wiping my sweaty forehead with my forearm, which only smears more flour across my skin. “I’m used to… different kinds of work.”

“Clearly,” Marge says, handing the brush back. “Get the vinegar solution into those tracks now. The locals will be here by seven thirty, and if the bins aren’t ready for the morning mix, we’re behind all day.”

I do as I’m told, my hands aching as I work.

Forty-five minutes into the shift, the wire brush slips.

The rough steel bristles catch the edge of the aluminum track, skidding violently and slicing directly into the meat of my palm.

I let out a breathless gasp, instantly dropping the brush into the bucket of water with a loud splash. A bright line of crimson wells up across my skin.

“Ow, damn it,” I whisper, squeezing my wrist to stop the flow.

The swinging doors burst open, and Marge steps into the back room holding a tray of unbaked sourdough loaves. She stops, her sharp eyes taking in the bucket splash and the white dust on my face.

I tuck my hand behind my back, gripping a dry rag from my pocket to clamp down on the cut.

“Everything alright in here?” Marge asks, squinting at me. “You look like you’re fighting that bin.”

“Just a minor issue with the hardware, Marge!” I say, forcing my voice into a high, bubbly, completely unbothered register despite the sharp, throbbing sting in my palm. “The aluminum is yielding to my superior urban willpower. We’re making great progress.”

Marge eyes me suspiciously, her hands on her hips.

If she knows I am bleeding, she’ll probably kick me out of the kitchen, and I am not losing my first day of work to a wire brush.

“Well, hurry it up,” Marge says, her tone gruff but missing any real malice. “The morning rush is starting early. I need those bins moved to the mixing station before the locals get here. And wipe your forehead—you’ve got white paste in your eyebrow.”

“It’s the new look,” I call out cheerfully as the doors swing shut behind her.

The second she is gone, I let out a shaky breath, pull an industrial-grade cloth bandage from the shelf, and wrap it tightly around my bleeding palm. I yank a pair of blue nitrile gloves over it, hiding the evidence completely, and drop right back onto my knees.

I finish the last flour bin and discover that Marge apparently operates under the horrifying assumption that competence should be rewarded with additional labor.

“Good,” she grunts after inspecting my work with the intensity of a military auditor. “Now sweep the back storage room. And get under the racks. Flour piles up under there.”

I’m ninety percent sure I briefly black out.

“Marge,” I say, clutching the broom dramatically, “I have already given this establishment a premium hinge-related performance.”

“You’re on the clock.”

“For eight dollars an hour,” I remind her weakly.

She points to the exit without looking up from the tray of croissants she’s arranging. “Door’s over there if you want to quit.”

The truly humiliating part is that I don’t.

At one point Marge actually pauses long enough to squint at me and say, “You can head home if you want.”

Which is obviously the moment my pride kicks in like a deranged little demon.

“No,” I say. “I can handle this.”

Marge gives me a look that says she has personally witnessed stronger people perish in less hostile conditions, then goes back to her pastry trays.