He screams harder. His feet are still going, talons raking the air.
Tovar rolls onto his side, face scratched, ego destroyed.Blood on his cheek from a beak strike that was clearly personal. He looks at me. Looks at the rooster. His mouth opens.
"Don't." I point at him with my free hand while Keer Jr. writhes under my arm. "He doesn't understand words and neither will you, apparently, because I said don't approach the cages."
"You brought that thing into our territory."
"Thatthingproduces offspring that produce eggs that keep people fed. You're welcome."
A man crouches by the temporary pen, refitting the latch Keer Jr. shredded on his way out. Deep voice, weathered hands, moving with steady patience, clearly someone who’s handled animals before.
"Needs a better latch." He doesn't look up. "This one's for rabbits. Too light."
"Oh, you know animals?"
"Kept them. Before." His hands work the wood, testing the fit. "Your goats need a wider pen too. The male's going to break the rails by morning if he keeps hitting them."
"He will keep hitting them. That's his entire personality." I shove Keer Jr. back into the cage and hold the door shut while the man rigs a heavier closure. "You have a name?"
"Bram."
"Bram, I owe you a conversation about pen construction. Tomorrow morning. Can you make sure the rails hold tonight?"
"Already reinforcing them." He stands. Looks at the goats, then at me. "The spotted female's got good lines."
"She's my favorite." I lean in, voice down. "Don't tell the others."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
He goes back to the goat pen. Just like that. No negotiation, no posturing, no asking permission. Sees work, does it.
I like him.
Orel is standing off to the side.
I don't know how long she's been there. Gray hair catchingthe low light, arms crossed, sharp eyes that miss nothing. She's looking at the rooster with an expression I can't read.
"What is that thing's name?"
I look her dead in the eyes. "Keer Jr."
Silence.
The silence where the air itself holds its breath. Bram's hands pause on the goat rail. The kid with the pecked ear looks up. Tovar, still on the ground with blood on his face, makes a strangled sound.
Orel's mouth lifts.
"Fitting," she says, and walks away.
Kestria is sitting on the ground near my workspace. Face in her hands. Shoulders shaking.
"Don't."
"I'm not—" She can't finish.
"I need to get back to the paste. The potency window is—"
"Fitting." She's wheezing. "She said fitting!"
