Page 123 of The Goat Next Door

Marge doesn’t even look up from the tray of cinnamon rolls she’s frosting. “I told you on Monday, Lawson. The kitchen is closed. We’re out of bread, we’re out of flour, and we’re out of patience.”

“I need a dozen glazed donuts, Marge,” I say.

Ember is in the back.

I can see the edge of her oversized linen shirt through the square window of the swinging kitchen door. She’s lifting a heavy mixer bowl, her narrow shoulders tensing under the fabric, her hair held up by that same flour-dusted pencil.

“Donuts are for people with a soul,” Marge says, leveling her spatula at my chest. “Go buy a box of stale crackers from the gas station.”

“I’m not leaving, Marge,” I say. “I’ll sit on the bench outside until the shift ends. Then I’ll come back tomorrow. I have a lot of free time between administrative reviews.”

A small, sharp sound comes from the kitchen—the distinct clack of a metal spatula hitting a stainless-steel table a little too hard. Ember’s shoulders stiffen through the glass, but she still doesn’t look at me.

Marge looks from the kitchen door to my face, her eyes narrowing until she looks like she’s measuring me for a coffin. Finally, she lets out a harsh, gravelly sigh and shoves a paper bag across the counter.

“Six dollars. And if you touch the glass with your greasy station fingers, I’m calling the sheriff.”

I drop a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change.”

“I intend to,” she snaps.

I take the bag, step out onto the sidewalk, and sit down on the green wooden bench directly beneath the bakery window. The wood is cold against my thighs.

I open the bag, take out a glazed donut, and eat it slowly, staring straight ahead at the gravel parking lot.

Ten minutes later, the side door of the bakery opens, and Ember walks out to the big metal dumpster with a green plastic bin full of old flour sacks.

She reaches the dumpster, heaves the bin up with both hands, and dumps the sacks inside with a loud, metallic bang. She turns around to walk back, her eyes fixed on the ground, completely ignoring the massive black command truck parked ten feet away.

“You know, that dumpster is off by three inches,” I call out, my voice low and conversational across the gravel. “Technically, if the county inspector comes through, Marge is looking at a code violation for blocking the fire lane egress.”

Ember stops. Her back is to me, her shirt catching the morning breeze.

For three long seconds, she doesn’t move. Then, she turns her head just enough to look at me over her shoulder.

Her face is completely still. The dark circles under her eyes are still there, but her jaw is set in that stubborn, unyielding line that makes her look like she’s about to tell a judge exactly where to shove his injunction.

“Go back to work, Brooks,” she says quietly.

“I am at work,” I say, holding up the paper bag. “Public relations. It’s part of the community outreach program.”

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch appears at the very corner of her mouth. But she suppresses it instantly, her eyes going flat again as she turns back to the side door.

“The outreach program is closed,” she says, and the door clicks shut behind her.

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On Wednesday, I’m back on the bench at 10:15 AM.

Marge gives me the donuts without speaking, though she slams the register drawer hard enough to rattle the display cases.

I sit outside for two hours.

Ember doesn’t come out to the dumpster. She doesn’t even look through the kitchen window.

But when Engine 3 roars past the intersection on a routine call to the north ridge, I see the white curtain in the bakery window move just a fraction of an inch before dropping back into place.

⋆ ✦ ⋆