Page 61 of Night Shift

Someone starts a “goat, goat, goat” chant, which the goats apparently interpret as their cue to revolt. Two chew through their leashes and make a break for the playground, scattering small children and at least two dads.

Mrs. Garcia takes off after them.

Petra watches.

“I’m not helping.”

“You probably shouldn’t.”

“I’ve done enough.”

“You really have.”

She turns her face back toward the sun.

For once, I let her have the last word.

By the time I leave the bay, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

Erebus is nowhere I can see.

I don't look for him.

Not yet.

At Ghoulish Grinds, I find a sticky note on the espresso machine written in my boss’s ugly, aggressive cursive.

YOU ARE NOW ASSISTANT MANAGER, WHICH MEANS YOU CAN WEAR ALL THE HATS. DON’T LET THE GOATS IN. LOVE, MANAGEMENT.

I stare at it.

Apparently, surviving a cosmic catastrophe qualifies me for middle management.

I’m going to demand a raise.

The day passes in a flood of customers desperate for something sweet, something hot, something that proves they’re alive. The line stretches to the door.

Every conversation is about the sun.

“I thought night was going to eat us.”

“My cat slept for seventy-two hours.”

“Did you see the moon? It looked like it wanted to die.”

By noon, the pastry case is down to a single ancestral lemon bar. I hide it in the refrigerator for Petra on the logic that she needs all the citrus she can get.

Hours pass.

Erebus doesn't call.

He doesn't text.

He doesn't appear outside the window.

At first, I tell myself I'm too busy to notice.

By four, I have checked my phone eleven times.