Right. Emotion. Connection. All the interpersonal skills that don’t come naturally to me but apparently matter to investors who have money to throw around.
I try again. “Every December, millions of urban families drive to tree farms, cut down living trees, drag them into their homes for a few weeks, then throw them away. Meanwhile, apartment dwellers and environmentally conscious consumers either buy plastic alternatives that will outlive us all, or they skip the tradition entirely.” I gesture to my display. “What if there was a third option?”
“Much better.” Paolo grins. “Keep going.”
“These trees are grown hydroponically in controlled environments using 90% less water than ye olde tree farm. No soil depletion, no pesticides, no transportation emissions. Each tree can be decorated, enjoyed, then placed on the windowsill until next year. They’re living decorations that improve with age.”
I’m hitting my stride now, the words flowing easier as I focus on the science rather than the marketability. “Urban Forest Solutions is perfect for apartment complexes, office buildings, and retail spaces to provide locally grown, sustainable holiday trees that?—”
A crash echoes from somewhere behind the atrium, followed by … bleating?
“Was that a goat?” Vick asks, looking toward the back of the building.
“Probably catering,” I say, but something cold settles in my stomach. The sound is getting louder. And closer.
“Chiron, no!” a woman’s voice shouts from the direction of what I assume are the service areas. “Get back here, you absolute?—”
The door bursts open, and chaos floods into the pristine atrium.
A donkey—an actual, living donkey—charges through the doorway with the single-minded determination of a freight train. Behind him, a herd of goats streams into the space, their hooves skittering and sliding on the polished marble floors. They’re bleating and scrambling for purchase, spreading out in a furry explosion across Bramblewood’s elegant main hall.
And they’re headed straight for my trees.
“No,” I breathe, watching in slow-motion horror as wild ruminants bear down on months of research and my last hope for funding. “No no no no?—”
A woman in dirt-stained overalls races after them, shouting commands the animals completely ignore. She slides across the marble in her work boots, arms windmilling for balance, and I realize with a jolt of disbelief…
I know that face.
It’s her. The argumentative woman from the permit office who yelled at me for taking too long. The one who’s been randomly popping into my thoughts since.
And she’s about to destroy everything I’ve worked for.
“Stop!” I roar, lunging toward one of the tables just as the lead goat—a black and white spotted demon—reaches it first.
The goat looks at me with malicious satisfaction, then opens her mouth and takes a massive bite out of my tree. The one I spent fourteen weeks perfecting. The one that represents the ideal ratio of needle density to branch spacing.
“Persephone, get down!” the woman shouts, but it’s too late.
The other goats have found my trees now, and they attack with the enthusiasm of creatures who’ve discovered a gourmet buffet. One knocks over my carefully positioned lights. Another manages to climb onto a table, its hooves scattering my informational pamphlets across the marble floor.
The donkey spots the backdrop banner and decides it looks delicious.
“Get them off!” I lunge for the spotted goat, but she evades me easily, taking half my prize tree with her. “Get your animals away from my trees.”
“I’m trying.” The woman dives for another goat, who promptly dodges her and starts working on the tree I’ve designated as my backup. “Ursula, I swear to god, if you don’t?—”
Two years of research. Two years of careful breeding, precise nutrient calculations, growth optimization. My entire life savings. My last chance to prove that sustainable innovation can compete in the real world.
Gone. Consumed by a herd of escaped goats while their owner slides around on marble floors in some kind of slapstick comedy routine.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I explode. I don’t even recognize myself right now, my usual composure cracking like an eggshell. “Can’t you control your animals?”
Eliza whips around to face me, her cheeks flushed red with exertion and, confusingly, anger. “Can’t you back off for two seconds while I handle this?”
“You call this handling?” I gesture wildly at the destruction around us. One of the younger goats has completely uprooted a tree and is now running in circles with it hanging from her mouth—a little green flag of victory.
“They got spooked. This isn’t—” Eliza cuts herself off, diving for the donkey, who’s now shredding my banner with its yellowing teeth. “Chiron!”
