Page 5 of The Goat Next Door

A woman carries a basket like she has never once considered doomscrolling.

An old man in a flannel shirt is sitting on a green bench, holding a paper cup of coffee, and as my massive truck rolls past, he actually lifts his hand and gives me a slow, neighborly nod.

I’m not saying I’m the main character, but the sunlight hits the windshield dramatically enough that I feel like I should be.

I pull the truck up to a red light—the only traffic light in the entire town, from the looks of it—and let out a slow, deep breath.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder.

Mom: I have researched goat temperament. They are “opinionated but responsive to snacks.” This feels like it applies to you as well.

I smile, looking out at the street, the shadow of the brick buildings stretching across the pavement.

The light turns green. I shift my foot to the gas, the truck rumbling forward into the heart of Suncrest Hollow.

“Get ready, everyone,” I whisper to the empty cab, thinking of the twelve goats I haven’t met yet. “The glitter is here.”

2

Brooks

“Visitors often report feeling ‘unexpectedly calm’

within the first hour.”

— The Guide to Suncrest Hollow

The mornings in Suncrest Hollow are meant to be quiet.

They’re meant for the crisp sound of chickadees, the low rustle of wind through the ancient valley oaks, and the steady, rhythmic thwack of a hammer meeting a fresh cedar fence post.

They are absolutely, unequivocally not meant for the shrieking mechanical protest of a rented U-Haul transmission that sounds like it’s being fed a steady diet of river gravel and pure malice.

I am halfway through replacing a rotting post along my eastern perimeter line—the property edge that sits just one hundred yards from my own front door—when the noise hits.

The sound is getting louder, closer, and suddenly a fifteen-foot U-Haul box truck comes lurching right up my gravel driveway.

It looks like it was recently driven through a glitter bomb factory.

Literally.

There is a fine, shimmering dusting of iridescent pink sparkles clinging to the side mirrors, coating the door handles, and swirling across the heavy layer of dust on the windshield.

Whoever is behind the wheel is currently wrestling the steering wheel, struggling to negotiate the wide, simple curve near my entry ditch.

I watch, my grip tightening around the handle of my hammer, as the massive truck swings entirely too wide.

CRUNCH.

My mailbox, which I spent three hours leveling, cementing, and securing just last Saturday afternoon, decides to abruptly embrace the earth. It folds over at a tragic forty-five-degree angle with a pathetic, metallic sigh, the wooden post snapping cleanly at the base.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just stand there in my work boots, feeling my blood pressure do a slow, dangerous climb into the stratosphere.

Well. That’s just fucking perfect.

The truck finally rolls to a heavy stop a few feet past the wreckage.

The driver’s side door swings open with a violent creak, and out steps… a natural disaster.