The sun moves. We fill three baskets. Then four.
Light's changing. Loading the baskets into the cart is a negotiation—goats taking up half the space, chickens in cages, supplies piled on supplies, the broken slat from the male goat's escape making everything worse. She wedges baskets into gaps. Stacks where she can.
The rooster tries to bite her hand through the bars.
"Later." She pulls her hand back. "We'll fight later."
He screams.
"I know. I know. Life is hard for aggressive roosters."
More screaming.
"You're going to lose your voice."
The screaming drops to a lower volume.
"He bit me."
She turns. I hold up my thumb. Red mark—small, already fading.
"He's asserting dominance."
"Over me."
"He doesn't know you're the Alpha. He just knows you're near his hens."
"His hens."
"Roosters are territorial. You're a large male in proximity to his flock. He's doing his job."
I look at the rooster. The rooster looks at me. More hostility than most wolves I've fought.
"I respect it. I still want to eat him, though."
"You'll have to go through me first."
"That's not the threat you think it is."
"It absolutely is. I'm scrappy."
Kestria drags herself to standing. Petals in her hair. Dirt on her face. She looks better than she has in days.
"Are we going?" she asks. "Or are you two going to keep flirting over the rooster?"
"We're notflirting," Melori answers, face turning bright red, at the same time I say, "We're not."
Kestria's face goes very still. Then she turns around and starts walking.
She's shaking again.
We're flirting. Kestria knows it. Keer Jr. probably knows it.
I take up the cart straps. Shoulders settle into the familiar hunch. Start walking. Smoother than before.
The animals are tired now. Goats plodding. Chickensroosting. Even the rooster reduced to angry muttering. Light fading through the trees.
"What's the processing time?"
