"He wants to know who's in charge."
"I'm in charge."
"You have to establish that. With the goat."
I stop. Look at her. Then at the male goat, who is chewing on my strap with total contempt.
I have killed men with my hands.
I am being taught to communicate.
With a goat.
"How do I establish dominance over a goat?"
"Push his head down when he butts. Firm, not rough. Hold it for a second. He'll figure it out."
"I'm not wrestling a goat."
"You're not wrestling him. You're communicating."
"With a goat."
"Yes."
"Using my hands."
"That's generally how it works."
Kestria sits down on a log. Not even trying anymore. Face in her hands, body heaving. Wheeze that keeps breaking into something worse. I can hear her breathing through her fingers. I can hear everything—the goats' hooves on packed dirt, Melori's footsteps, the low murmur of her voice.
My sister. Losing her composure on a forest trail while I pull a cart full of fucking livestock.
I'm going to remember this. She's going to remember this.
The male goat butts the cart again. Harder.
The rooster screams.
Three hens panic at once, flapping and squawking. Their combined weight shifts the cage, which slides on the cart bed, which startles the spotted female, who yanks her lead rope so hard the knot pulls half-loose from the rail.
"Mel—"
"I see it." Already moving. Already there, hands on the rope before the goat can bolt. "Hold on, hold—there. Okay." Retying the knot, fingers working fast. The goat presses her nose against Melori's arm. Not aggressive. Just scared.
"You're fine," she tells the goat. "Everything's fine. The rooster is insane but he's contained."
The rooster hurls himself against the cage to prove her wrong.
"Mostly contained."
The male goat gets his head through the cart slats. Just shoves it through—horns catching on the wood, body stuck on the other side. Bleating with more annoyance than panic.
"Don't pull him—" Already jogging back. "If you pull him, the horns will—"
I'm already pulling him.
"I said don't—"
