Page 31 of The Goat Next Door

So now I am crouched on the bakery floor, covered in flour, running entirely on caffeine, stubbornness, and the psychological need to prove I can survive manual labor for more than a few hours.

Twenty minutes later, Marge violently shoves the swinging doors open again.

“Ember! If you’re so determined to stay and work, get out here. The high-school girl called in sick. You’re on the register.”

I straighten from where I’m sweeping under the storage racks, my lower back immediately filing several formal complaints with my spine.

“Marge,” I say, clutching the broom handle, “I have been employed here for less than three hours.”

“You have a mouth and you can count,” Marge says, already turning back toward the ovens. “Smile. Don’t touch the espresso machine; you’ll blow the boiler.”

The next four hours I stand behind the ancient, clunky cash register and try to navigate the complex social hierarchy of Suncrest Hollow under the intense scrutiny of the locals.

They don’t like me here—the girl from the city who sticks out like a sore thumb—and they make it known with every pointed glare.

Martha, the historical society president, is the third person in line. She looks at my flour-dusted jumpsuit, my messy gold curls escaping my bun, and lets out a low, disapproving hum.

“A cinnamon roll and a coffee,” Martha says, her tone dripping with civil disapproval. “And please ensure the bag isn’t covered in… flour.”

“It’s unbleached organic pastry flour, Martha,” I say. “A completely standard byproduct of local economic productivity. That will be six dollars.”

“In my day, young women didn’t play dress-up in work clothes to prove a point,” Martha mutters, tossing a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the counter.

“And in my day, we called that a hostile consumer feedback loop,” I say with a bright, entirely fake grin, slamming the register drawer shut.

By eleven o’clock, the credit card reader suffers a total internal network failure. The machine emits one long electronic beep and then dies dramatically, which honestly feels relatable. It forces me to explain to a line of six angry contractors in high-vis vests that they have to use cash.

One of them, a burly man with a grease-stained cap, glares at me.

“You city people come down here and everything breaks,” he says. “Can’t even buy a donut without a satellite connection.”

“The satellite is fine, sir,” I say. “It’s a local router latency issue. If you’ll just give me a moment to power-cycle the hardware, or perhaps we can barter? What’s the street value of a bear claw in the current agricultural market?”

He just stares at me like I am speaking a foreign language.

When the clock finally hits six, Marge walks over to the front door and flips the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.

The silence that settles into the bakery is heavy and deafening. I drop my hands onto the counter, my body vibrating with total, systemic exhaustion.

Marge walks over, looks at the sparkling clean flour bins visible through the kitchen door, then looks at the cash drawer I’ve meticulously balanced. She reaches into her apron pocket, pulls out a fresh, warm loaf of sourdough wrapped in brown paper, and sets it on the counter next to my car keys.

“You didn’t quit,” Marge says, narrowing her eyes at me like this is somehow personally offensive. “Most of the summer girls from the university cry by ten and leave through the back door.”

“I don’t quit, Marge,” I say, giving her a tired but genuine smile. “I told you.”

Marge grunts, wiping her hands on her apron. “Well. You weren’t completely useless.”

My exhausted brain lights up with irrational pride.

“Thank you,” I say solemnly. “That’s so nice of you.”

“Hmph.” She points a finger at me. “Don’t get dramatic about it. But if you want more hours here and there, I could probably use the help.”

I blink at her. “Wait. Are you casually offering me continued employment?”

“I’m casually saying my high-school staff have the work ethic of sleepy raccoons,” Marge mutters. “And you actually showed up.”

A grin spreads across my face despite the fact that every muscle in my body currently feels shredded. “Wow. This is huge for my bakery career.”