My phone buzzes with a severe weather alert just as Paolo texts the group chat:
Roads are getting bad. Everyone go buy bread and toilet paper, STAT.
I laugh, knowing I should go to my apartment, defrost something, and wait out the storm like a sensible person. Instead, I drive toward Eliza’s neighborhood, telling myself I’m just concerned about her animals in this weather.
Which is partly true, but mostly, I’m worried about her.
The roads get progressively worse as I head uphill to her neighborhood, snow beginning to mix with sleet, tinkling as it all hits my windshield. This is Pittsburgh, so of course the roads haven’t been pre-treated. By the time I reach Eliza’s driveway, my car is sliding more than driving.
I park behind her truck and see her wrestling with the trailer gate, trying to coax Chiron down the ramp while snow swirls around them. The donkey plants his feet and refuses to budge, ears pinned against the wind.
“Come on, you stubborn ass,” Eliza yells over the weather. “It’s warm inside!”
I approach carefully, not wanting to spook either of them. “Need help?”
Eliza whips around, her face a mix of surprise and possibly relief. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought you might need extra hands getting everyone secure.”
She eyes me suspiciously, snow collecting on her knit hat. “You drove out here in this weather to help with goats?”
“I really love ruminants,” I say, which makes her snort.
“Chiron’s not technically a ruminant.”
“I love equids, too.”
That gets me an almost-smile before she turns to the donkey. “He’s being dramatic about the ice. Thinks he’s going to slip.”
I study the situation—Chiron’s wide stance, the way he’s eyeing the ramp, the patches of ice forming on the trailer floor. “He’s not wrong. That ramp is getting slick.”
“What do you suggest, Dr. Dolittle?”
I grab the bag of goat manure I’ve had in my trunk for the past two weeks since she and I argued about it. I scatter it on the truck bed and ramp, creating, if not traction exactly, a familiar-smelling surface I hope Chiron will trust.
He sniffs the poop, takes a tentative step, then walks down like it was his idea all along.
“Oh yeah.” I pump my fist and shoot finger guns at the donkey, like he and I won some sort of contest.
“Show off,” Eliza mutters, but she’s smiling.
For the next hour, Eliza lets me help her. She directs while I follow orders, which is pretty hot. We check on the animals’ bedding, fill their water troughs, and make sure they have enough hay.
We move around each other carefully, both hyperaware of the other’s presence.
The physical work feels good, purposeful. This is what a partnership should look like, I think. Two people working toward the same goal, complementing each other’s strengths. I feel useful here in her space, like she was in mine.
“Last load,” Eliza calls, gesturing toward a stack of hay bales around the back of the barn.
I grab two bales, muscles straining against the weight. The snow is coming down harder now, and ice has formed a treacherous layer over everything. I’m three steps from the door when my foot hits a slick patch.
Physics takes over. Again.
The hay bales go flying as I crash hard, my right ankle twisting beneath me at an angle that definitely isn’t natural. Pain shoots up my leg, sharp and immediate.
“Reed!” Eliza drops her own bale and rushes over. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I grit out, trying to stand. The ankle immediately buckles, sending another wave of pain through my system. “Shit.”
