Page 45 of The Goat Next Door

“What time is the service tomorrow?” she asks.

“Ten o’clock,” I say. “At the main station. You don’t have to come.”

“I’ll be there,” she says, her voice steady. “I have to see if your dress uniform is as serious as your personality. I bet you look very crisp in a tie.”

I look at her for a long second—the blue twine, the stubborn jaw.

“Don’t wear white,” I say, a genuine smile breaking through. “The floors are oily, and Marge will definitely make you sweep if you look too clean.”

“Noted,” she laughs.

I walk out to the truck, the sun hot on my shoulders.

The valley feels wide today, the mountains high and blue, and for the first time in three years, the approach of June sixth doesn’t feel like a weight I have to carry entirely by myself.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

“Daddy! Did you fix the donut lady’s kitchen?” she asks, scrambling into the passenger seat.

“I did,” I say, buckling her in. “She’s got a brand new stove now.”

“Does she make cookies?”

“She says she’s going to,” I answer, pulling away from the curb.

“Are you sad tomorrow, Daddy?” Sophie asks, her voice dropping to a small, serious register as she looks out the window.

She’s only five, but she knows. She knows the day the flags go to half-mast and the station bell rings.

Kids always know more than you think they do.

Especially about grief.

“A little bit, bug,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. “It’s a hard day for the fire station.”

“Can I come to the parade?”

“Yeah,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her knee. “You can come. You can hold my hand when I get too sad.”

I pull into our driveway. We get out of the car and I pick Sophie up, her weight a grounding force against my chest.

She’s getting so big, so fast.

She’s the only thing that makes the years since the fire feel like anything other than a long, dark blur.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, Soph?”

“Is the donut lady coming to see you tomorrow?”

“She said she would.”

“She’s nice,” Sophie says, closing her eyes. “Even if she is a bit weird.”

“Yeah. She’s nice,” I say, staring out across the pasture toward the lights glowing faintly in Emmy’s kitchen window. “And a bit weird.”

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