Sunlight already painted a line across Rawley’s chest, picking out the ridge of every muscle as he slept face-down beside me, one arm thrown across my waist and the other crooked under the pillow like a gunfighter who’d dozed off on sentry.
I watched him breathe—counted, maybe, three dozen in-and-outs—before I slid his hand off and extricated myself.
He barely stirred, but the moment my bare feet hit the floor, I heard it: the double thump of goat hooves on the porch, followed by a wet snuffling as they checked the screen door for structural weaknesses.
The next hour played out like an instructional video for the recently-paroled. I shuffled to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and took a moment to just... exist.
The house didn’t smell like bleach and blood anymore, which was a small miracle considering the last three weeks of frantic home repair and even more frantic attempts at “normal.”
This morning, the air tasted like sourdough and fresh basil and the musk of the two dumbass goats Rawley had let me name. Their names, as of week two, were Panic and Disorder.
In my defense, I thought I’d be the only one calling them.
I shrugged on Rawley’s old Carhartt jacket—easily six sizes too big, sleeves covering my hands—and stepped outside. Thegoats were waiting on the porch, heads cocked in perfect synchronization.
Panic, the bigger one, looked at me with an intensity that bordered on romantic obsession. Disorder rammed his nose into my thigh, rooting for snacks I hadn’t even pocketed yet.
“Wait your turn,” I said, because talking to them worked about as well as talking to the actual adults in this house.
I skirted the porch and made for the chicken coop, which was a new addition and a minor architectural marvel. Macon and Rawley had poured the foundation in a single morning, then spent three nights arguing over ventilation and predator mesh.
Jojo’s Coop—Burke had insisted on the branding—stood fortress-like at the edge of the garden, complete with a little wooden cutout of a rooster over the door.
Inside, the Barred Rock chicks chirped like a malfunctioning car alarm, huddled in their safe, sun-warmed domain. I topped off the feed and water, checked the heat lamp, and—just for a second—let myself watch them, wild and fast and feathering into real birds with every day.
I envied their simple life: eat, run, peep, repeat. No existential threat, no plot to take over the world, just the daily joy of not being eaten.
The goats circled the coop, Panic pushing open the door with his head before I could block him. I caught him by the horns and redirected, but not before he managed to knock over the watering can and start lapping at the spill.
I knelt to mop it up with my sleeve, cursing under my breath, when a voice cut in from behind: “You need a hand, sunshine?”
Burke, in all his denim glory, stood at the garden gate, holding a mug the size of his head. He looked the way a cartoonist would draw a rancher if the assignment was “make it gay, but don’t let the censors notice.”
I sometimes wondered if he slept in those shirts or if he kept a hidden cache somewhere and changed them just to fuck with me.
I waved him off. “I’m fine. The animals just have a sixth sense for humiliating me.”
He sipped the coffee, then leaned on the gate, smirking. “You’re doing better than last week. They haven’t eaten any wiring since Tuesday.”
“Small victories,” I muttered. I reset the watering can, then did a quick headcount of the chicks—still ten, though Biscuit looked like he was plotting something.
I closed the coop, latched it, and backed away, only to trip over Disorder, who’d materialized behind me like a poorly trained ghost.
Burke barked a laugh and opened the gate, motioning me into the garden. “Come see this,” he said, and I followed, curious.
The garden—my garden, if I could be selfish—was a riot of early summer. Rows of lettuce and radishes and some experimental spinach, all thriving thanks to the compost I’d brewed up in secret.
Sunflowers, already knee-high, bordered the plot like a living fence. It was still rough, the edges wild, but you could see the bones of something lasting.
Burke pointed at a cluster of red, right at the base of a tomato cage. “Saw your first one.”
I bent down, careful not to step on any new shoots. There it was—a perfect, round tomato, skin so thin the sun made it glow. I plucked it, feeling its weight, and for a second the stupidest pride filled my whole chest.
“You ever notice,” Burke said, “how everything you touch turns out okay?”
I shook my head, but the compliment stuck anyway.
We harvested together—lettuce, a handful of radishes, a sprig of basil—then I washed my hands at the hose and left Burke to argue with the scarecrow.
