Kestria finishes loading the hens and comes over. Stops. Stares.
"Mel."
"Yes?"
"He reminds me of someone."
I look at the rooster. Look at Kestria.
"We're calling him Keer Jr."
Her hand flies to her mouth.
"Look at him," I say. "Aggressive. Intimidating. Covered in battle damage. Got the whole 'don't come near me or I'll take your fingers off' energy. Very familiar."
"You can't—"
"Already did. Keer Jr. Final answer."
She's doubled over, arms around her stomach, and the rooster takes this as a personal attack and hurls himself at the bars again. Which makes it worse. She's not making sound anymore. Just shaking.
"Goats," I say. "Before I lose it too."
The goat pen is three stalls down. Four females, one male, a young one that's not worth the feed yet.
"Those three." I point. "The dappled, the brown, and the one trying to climb out."
The trader leans on his fence. "Good eye. Six coppers each."
"Three."
"Three? Lady, the brown one alone is worth—"
"The brown one has an overgrown hoof. See the curl on the front left? That's weeks of neglect. You haven't trimmed her once this season."
He looks at the hoof and doesn't argue.
"And the climber's got mites on her ears. I can see them from here. I'll treat both when I get home, but you're not charging me full price for animals you haven't maintained."
"Four coppers."
"Three and a half."
"Done." He sticks his hand out. "You want the male too?"
"How much?"
"Five."
"Three. He's aggressive and you know it."
"He's a breeding male. Aggressive is the job."
"Three and a half. Final."
"You're killing me."
"You'll survive." I shake his hand.
