He laughs. Kestria's already reaching for the rope leads.
"You've had goats before?"
"Long time ago. Lost them. Starting over."
He nods—doesn't need the full story.
The goats come with rope leads. Three females on one side of the cart, male on the other. He immediately tries to eat the wooden slats.
"Stop that."
He doesn't.
"I'm not asking." I shove his head away from the wood. "You're going to be pulling this later, probably. Don't eat your future job."
"Is he?" Kestria's wiping her eyes. "Pulling the cart?"
"No. Keer is."
"You're going to ask the Alpha to pull a cart full of chickens and goats."
"And supplies. Don't forget the supplies." I tighten a rope on the nearest cage. The hens scream about it.
"Mel—"
"He's got the muscles. He came along. Might as well use him."
"He didn't come to be a pack mule. He came to keep us from dying."
"Eh, same thing."
She steps back and looks at what we've assembled. Hens in travel cages, stacked and protesting. One rooster in a cage of his own, rattling the bars. Goats roped to the sides. Salt, herbs, dried goods crammed into every gap. The cart groans when I test its weight.
"This is insane."
"I know."
"You're not even going to defend it."
"I'm tired."
"It's a traveling disaster."
"Help me with the goats."
I grab the cart handle and pull. Kestria takes the rope leads—the goats fighting every direction that isn't backwards. The chickens lose their minds. Keer Jr. screams louder. A child we pass starts crying—I feel bad, but not enough to stop.
"Almost there," I manage. Arms burning. The cart weighs more than I thought possible. Wheels catching on every stone.
"Do you need me to—" Kestria reaches for the handle and I see it—the hitch in her step, her hand ghosting her side before she catches herself.
"I've got it. Manage the goats."
"The goats are managing me."
We reach the trees and stop, both panting. Cart settles. Goats start grazing immediately. I push hair off my face—when did that come loose?—and look toward the oak.
Keer steps out of the shadows. Same tree. Same position. Hasn't moved. He probably heard us coming from a quarter mile away—the chickens alone would carry that far.
