Page 96 of The Worst Possible Plan

She laughed. “Around here, that usually means somebody escaped with a peacock.” She said it so naturally that I had absolutely no doubt this had happened at least once. Probably more than once. Maplewood Falls had an oddly high tolerance for poultry-related emergencies.

“Close.” Not species-wise. Or legally. But spiritually? Surprisingly close.

“Should I ask?” I could practically hear the smile in her voice. The kind that understood small towns produced wonderfully strange stories on a regular basis.

“Probably not.” Mostly because explaining my morning from the beginning would require diagrams, emotional support snacks, and at least forty-five uninterrupted minutes.

“Fair enough. So, how can I help?”

“I was wondering…” I twisted a strand of hair around my finger. “Did Dr. Keller end up with the festival animals? The goat and alpacas and the little donkey?” I held my breath without meaning to. Amazing how quickly four slightly ridiculous farm animals had become the center of my emotional universe. Two days ago, I couldn’t have picked Bandit out of a lineup. Now I was one unanswered phone call away from developing stress-induced gray hair.

“Oh, yes.” Amy’s voice brightened another three levels. “They were here for a little while. Oh my goodness, they were adorable. Especially that tiny donkey.” She sighed happily, like she’d clearly spent quality time being charmed. “I wanted to take him home. He has the sweetest little face. And the goat…” She laughed. “He escaped one of the exam rooms for about thirty seconds and wandered into reception like he owned the place. Dr. Keller said all their health checks looked good. Everyone got examined. Hooves, teeth, ears, the whole works. One of the alpacas sneezed on Tiffany from accounting.” She paused to laugh again. “Twice, actually. Poor Tiffany never even saw that coming. They certainly made the morning more entertaining.”

“So…” I said carefully. “Where are they now?”

“Oh. They’re not here anymore.”

“They’re not?” My fingers gripped the phone a little tighter. “I thought maybe Dr. Keller had decided to keep them.” It wasn’t a particularly logical plan. Veterinary clinics generally weren’t known for collecting goats the way people collected houseplants. Still, hope wasn’t especially interested in logistics.

“No. The handler had another delivery this morning and couldn’t take them right away, so they needed somewhere to stay for a day or two.” Papers rustled in the background as she searched for something. “It all happened pretty quickly.”

“A day or two?” I sat up straighter. Temporary. Temporary wasn’t permanent. Temporary meant there was still a window. Tiny. Possibly closing. But still a window.

“Uh-huh.”

“So… where are they?” I asked, trying very hard to sound like a calm, emotionally balanced adult instead of someone one sentence away from stealing another vehicle. Personal growth. I was aiming for at least twenty-four hours between transportation-related crimes.

“They’re staying at Hills Farm.”

“Hills Farm?” The name sounded vaguely familiar. Or maybe every farm sounded vaguely familiar. There were only so many combinations of hills, meadows, creeks, and maple trees available to rural communities.

“It’s a little hobby farm out on Route Twelve.” I could hear keyboard clicks in the background. “About forty-five minutes from town. The Petersons own it. They’re really sweet. They help out whenever somebody’s in a bind.”

Hope fluttered cautiously inside my chest. Small. Fragile. Wearing a tiny helmet because, frankly, it’d been through a lot today.

“So they’re keeping them?” Please say yes. Please let one nice family have unexpectedly fallen in love with four festival animals. Stranger things had happened. I’d kissed a sheriff yesterday and been arrested by him today. Reality had already abandoned conventional storytelling.

“No. This is just temporary.”

My shoulders sagged. I physically felt hope slide down another couple of inches.

“The Petersons don’t really have the room,” Amy continued apologetically. “They’re a small hobby farm. A couple of horses, some chickens, a few sheep. They offered to help, but once the handler finishes his other job, he’s supposed to pick everyone up again.” I could hear genuine disappointment in her voice, like she’d already imagined keeping them too. Bandit had left tiny emotional casualties all over town.

“And then…” I swallowed. My throat suddenly felt far too tight for such a simple question. “They go to auction?” I already knew the answer. I just needed to hear it out loud because sometimes hope insisted on demanding a second opinion.

“I think that’s still the plan.” Her voice softened. “Nobody’s said otherwise.”

Silence settled between us, the kind that seemed to stretch much longer than it actually lasted.

“Sophie?” Amy asked gently, the way people did when they thought you might’ve started crying without warning.

“I’m here.” Barely. Emotionally, I was somewhere out on Route Twelve already, standing in a pasture negotiating with complete strangers.

“I’m sorry it’s not what you wanted to hear,” said Amy. Nothing about it felt rehearsed, just genuine kindness from someone who understood that sometimes loving animals made life unnecessarily complicated.

I closed my eyes briefly, mostly because if I kept them open, I suspected I’d start arguing with reality. And reality was notoriously difficult to negotiate with.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “Thanks for telling me.” Better uncomfortable truth than comforting ignorance. Even if the truth currently felt like someone had dropped a cinder block directly onto my chest.