I don’t say much between the moment we drop Dustin at the station and our arrival at Waterford Elementary. Grey doesn’t push me to speak either. That still-dull ache tugs inside me. Mr. Calhoun’s words. Dustin’s lovesick enthusiasm. Carli on her horse.
Cars, SUVs and trucks line the circular driveway and extend out through the parking lot toward the street. Children crowd the schoolyard behind the principal, waiting to bereleased to their parents for the day. The crossing guard, Millie, waves at Grey and me as we pull in.
Jenny’s standing by the flagpole in the lawn off to the side of the pickup line, grazing lazily.
“She’s deceptively calm,” Grey notes. “Trampolines … flower beds … the town square …” He rattles off some of Jenny’s priors like he’s reciting a rap sheet.
Greyson and I hop out of the truck. We’re still muddy from the road repair. The kids behind the gate cheer and shout at us. The ones who know us yell our names. We wave over to them, walking up to Principal Bearden.
“It’s Jenny,” she says as we approach, glancing over at the goat and then back at us. “Thanks for coming.”
The kids all start shouting in a chorus. “It’s JENNYYYYYYY!”
A boy shouts, “Get her!”
“There’s a goat here!” A little girl squeals.
One kid bleats, “She’s baaaack!” and a riot of giggles follows.
Jenny looks up, unperturbed and slightly defiant.
Parents continue to roll forward in the line and teachers escort children one-by-one to the waiting vehicles.
Miss Tuckett approaches us: “She tried to get inside earlier. When any of us approach her, she rears up and runs away.”
Greyson grumbles something under his breath. I think he says, “This goat’s giving me PTSD.”
“We should have stopped for feed,” I say to Grey. Then I ask Miss Tuckett and Principal Bearden, “Do you have some crackers in any of the classrooms or the teacher lounge? Maybe a carrot or an apple?”
“I got an apple!” a boy shouts from behind the gate. He’s already bending down and fishing through his backpack.
The gym teacher, Mr. Wallace, shows up with a jump rope. “This is the closest I could come to some sort of leash. Hope it helps.”
“That’ll do,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
Grey takes the apple through the bars of the gate from the boy.
Jenny looks up. Her wide-set, unfocused eyes bore into me like a criminal in a standoff. She hones in on the apple. Bonus points: the boy handed us his lunch sack. That’ll come in handy.
I confer with Grey. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. You are going to rattle the bag. Don’t make eye contact with Jenny. Hold the apple low enough that she thinks it’s fair game. As soon as she’s distracted by you and the treat, I’ll get her roped.”
“Pays to be a rancher,” Grey says.
“Usually,” I agree.
The kids look on, squealing and shouting despite their teachers telling them to stay calm. Principal Bearden temporarily stops the pickup line.
Grey rattles the paper bag and Jenny’s head turns. Grey avoids her eyes—holds the apple at his hip. I approach slowly to Jenny’s right. Before I know what’s happening, Jenny ducks her head and aims right for me, butting me out of her way. I careen backward, arms pinwheeling.
The kids shriek with laughter.
Greyson rustles the bag again and Jenny squints at him. She takes a step. This time, I act swiftly, looping the rope over her head and cinching it so she’s under my control. Jenny stares at me with one of her eyes. Then she takes off, bucking, tugging the rope—and me—along with her.
I plant my feet. Jenny utters a loud protestingmaaaaaa.
Greyson says, “You got her.”
The kids still, all eyes on me and Jenny.
