Page 85 of The Goat Next Door

Davis reaches the edge of the wash, his chest heaving. He grabs my forearm, his grip frantic, his eyes raking over me—the blood on my shin, the soot caked in my lashes, the unnatural tilt of the truck.

“Jesus, Lawson. You look like hell. We saw the flare from the crossroads—Fred thought the floor gave out under you.”

“I’m fine,” I say, though my leg gives a treacherous jolt of pain that makes me lean hard into him. “The leg’s just scraped. What’s the status on the lower line?”

Davis doesn’t let go, his knuckles white as he keeps me steady. He’s breathing hard, his face a mask of residual panic.

“The rain’s a godsend. It’s drowning the bogs out, top down. The state crew’s pulling the secondary trench. It’s over, Brooks.” He shifts his gaze to my leg again. “You’re coming back to the station. You need the medic to look at that gash, and I’m not dragging you back in a box because you decided to play hero and ignore a compound fracture.”

“I’m not going to the station,” I say, pulling my arm free. I reach into the cab of my wrecked truck to pull my white helmet out of the mud. “I’m walking the shortcut down through the culvert lane. Sophie’s at the house.”

Davis stares at me. He looks at the dark, impenetrable wall of the woods, then back at me.

He knows as well as I do that I should be going for a medical check and that I’m leaving a state-registered vehicle in a ditch.

He hesitates, his mouth opening to recite the regulation, but then he catches the look in my eyes.

He lets out a sharp, frustrated breath, shaking his head. “If you pass out in the culvert, I’m the one who has to explain why you’re dead in a drainage pipe. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” I say, turning toward the tree line.

“Lawson!” he calls out.

I stop.

Davis walks over, his expression softening into a tired, grim sort of concern. “Go on. We’ve got the ledger covered. But if I don’t see you at the shift change tomorrow, I’m sending the whole squad to tear your house apart.”

“I’ll be there,” I say, and I turn into the dark.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

The lane is completely silent under the steady, rhythmic drumming of the rain. The wind loses its teeth, turning into a lazy, wet breeze that smells of damp earth and the sweet, clean scent of the pine needles.

Ember’s front porch is dark but I don’t use my flashlight. I know the alignment of the steps by heart.

I push the screen door open with a soft click.

The house is freezing, the air thick with that deep, old-plaster chill that sets in the second the wood stove goes out.

“Ember?” I whisper into the dark.

Nothing comes back but the sound of the rain against the tin roof of the mudroom.

I move down the short hallway toward the parlor, my boots making no sound against the rag rugs.

The door is halfway open.

In the center of the new bed Ember bought, Sophie is completely buried beneath three layers of patchwork quilts.

Sitting on the floorboards right next to the mattress, her back propped against the cedar frame, is Ember.

She is fast asleep, her head tilted uncomfortably to the left so her temple rests against the edge of the mattress. Her face is pale in the green glow from the hallway, her curls completely wild, falling across her nose and cheeks.

On the floor next to her boots is an old review copy of a novel and her watercolor tray.

My chest does a tight squeeze.

I slide my arms beneath the weight of the quilts, lifting Sophie up against my chest. She doesn’t even open her eyes; she just lets out a small, wet grumble and shifts her head until her nose is buried directly into my jacket, her small fingers locking onto my collar by reflex.