Page 54 of One Adult, Please

"Historical preservation, Grant. We're building a society."

He looks up at me. The weather on his face has shifted to bewildered warmth. "You drew this in crayon," he says.

"It's the crayon plan. Made with crayons. In the thinking box. On the crime boat."

"The crime boat."

"Where we live. You'll see it. It's great. Beck built it. Well, Beck claimed it. The park built it. Beck improved it."

Grant looks at Beck. Beck gives him a nod and a grin. Grant looks at Joel. Joel gives him a nod and no grin. Grant looks at me. I give him the friendship paddle thumbs up, which is a thing I just invented where I hold the paddle in one hand and give a thumbs up with the other and it communicates "everything is fine and also I have an oar."

"We want to secure Wonder Garden," Joel says. "Clear out any remaining threats. Seal the perimeters. Make the zone safe for the animals and for us."

"There are..." Grant pauses. "There are several of them in the garden. I've been watching from the windows. At least six that I've seen. Maybe more in the buildings."

"We've secured buildings before," Beck says. "Four in Mythic Frontier yesterday. She invented zombie bowling and zombie ballroom."

Grant looks between us.

"We'll clear it tomorrow," Joel says. "Systematic. Zone by zone. Every building."

"I can help," Grant says. "I know the layout. I know which buildings have single entries, which have multiple and where the maintenance access points are."

"You have keys?" Joel asks.

"Veterinary staff had access to all Wonder Garden facilities."

Joel's face does the key thing. Finding another person with keys is, for Joel, the emotional equivalent of finding a soulmate. His keyring has found another keyring in the wild and I think we should give them privacy.

We make our way back to the lobby and its decorative pond.

"Tomorrow," I say. "Then the garden part is ours and the animals are safe and Grant is part of the team."

"I'm part of the team?" Grant says it like he's confirming a diagnosis he wasn't expecting.

"You're the animal doctor."

"I'm a veterinarian."

"Animal doctor." I point around the circle. "Infrastructure. Defense. Animal doctor. Glue."

"Glue?"

"She's the Glue," Beck and Joel say together.

"Okay," he says. "I'm the animal doctor."

"Excellent. Welcome to the…"

The goat hits me from behind.

I don't see it coming because it comes from behind, and also because I'm in the middle of a welcoming speech and my awareness of my surroundings has taken a back seat to my awareness of my own monologue.

The goat, a mid-sized brown-and-white creature with horizontal pupils and the moral compass of a parking meter, walks silently across the floor, which is impressive for a hooved animal and suggests premeditation. It lowers its head and drives it directly into the backs of my knees with the force and precision of a battering ram operated by an animal that never once questioned whether its actions are appropriate.

My knees buckle. My body goes forward. The friendship paddle goes up. My arms windmill. My center of gravity, my oldest and most reliable enemy, abandons its post entirely.

I pitch forward into the decorative pond.