"NPR?"
"She's very sophisticated."
Twenty minutes later, I'm driving through Seattle with a goat in my backseat, listening to a late-night jazz program because apparently that's Buttercup's favorite.
My electric Porsche’s pristine interior is already showing signs of goat occupation.
Muddy hoofprints.Hay somehow everywhere.
And is that a bite mark on the headrest?
My phone rings through the car speakers.
Connor.
"Tell me you're not doing something stupid," he says without so much as a ‘hello.’
"Define stupid."
"Daniella says you're stealing a goat."
"Borrowing.With permission.Mostly."
"Luke."His voice carries twenty years of friendship."What's the plan here?"
"I need to show Sage that I choose her.That I trust her.That her hacking my profile was actually the best thing that ever happened to me."
"And this requires a goat?"
"Apparently."
Buttercup blats agreement from the backseat.
"Was that?—"
"Yes."
"You have a goat in your car.”
"Yes."
"Your hundred-thousand-dollar car."
"Yes."
A pause."You really love her."
"The goat's growing on me, but?—"
"Sage, you idiot."
"Oh."I glance in the rearview mirror at Buttercup, who's somehow found a seatbelt to chew."Yeah.I really do."
"Then godspeed, you lovable bastard.”He hangs up.
The drive to Alder Ridge takes forever.
Buttercup provides commentary for most of it, occasionally punctuated by the sound of her discovering new things to eat.
