Page 34 of The Goat Next Door

“Trust me,” I say, dragging another chair across the floor with my boot, “you are not the benchmark I’m using for functional adult behavior.”

It’s only when she drops her hands into her lap that I see it.

Her right hand is encased in a thick, blue nitrile glove, but the shape of it is completely wrong. It’s bulky, stuffed with something underneath, and there’s a dark, tacky smear of red drying right at the cuff of her canvas sleeve.

My jaw draws tight. “What’s with the glove?”

“Oh, this?” She lifts her hand, waving it in a tiny, dismissive circle. “It’s a fashion statement. Industrial chic. It keeps the aesthetic consistent. Very avant-garde.”

“Take it off, Ember.”

“I’d really rather not. It’s a very chic look. You wouldn’t get it.”

I don’t waste time arguing. I pull up another chair, sit directly opposite her, and gently take her wrist. Her skin is ice cold under my fingers, and she’s shivering for real now.

I look at her left hand, which is nervously picking at a thread on her knee, then look back at the blue latex.

“Sophie, go grab the blue first-aid kit from the back seat of the truck,” I tell the kid. “The little one under the seat.”

“The one with the red cross?” Sophie asks, eyes wide.

“That’s the one. Don’t touch anything else.”

“Okay!” Sophie shouts. Her pink boots clatter down the steps as she takes off toward the truck parked in the driveway.

I turn back to Emmy, my fingers still anchored firmly around her wrist. “Peel it off.”

She lets out a slow, defeated breath and uses her left hand to tug at the blue latex. She rolls it down past her palm, and the bandage underneath is a mess.

It’s just a cheap, commercial pad she must have swiped from the bakery’s back room, and it’s completely soaked through with dark, sticky blood.

“Did Marge see this?” I ask, my voice low.

“No,” Emmy says quickly. “And don’t you dare tell her. She thinks I’m some city girl who’s going to cry and run back to the coast by next week. I didn’t cry. Not once. Even when the card reader broke and some guy told me I personally ruined his morning.”

“You’re an idiot,” I say, using the small scissors from the kit Sophie just dropped on the table to snip through the tangled, bloody tape.

“I am a woman of iron, Brooks,” she says, trying to sound bubbly again, though she winces as I peel the pad away. “I feel nothing. I am an urban warrior. My pain tolerance is legendary in certain corporate circles.”

The pad comes off, revealing a jagged, two-inch cut across the fleshy part of her thumb. It’s filled with dark red crust and tiny black flecks of metal from a wire brush. It’s deep. It needs a real cleaning.

I’ve seen worse injuries. Hell, I’ve treated worse injuries roadside with smoke still hanging in the air. But something about the sight of her trying to pretend this isn’t a big deal irritates me more than it should.

Maybe because she looks so damn tired while doing it.

I rip open an alcohol wipe. “This is going to sting.”

“Please. Bring it on. I am completely numb to—”

The second the wipe hits the raw skin, she goes dead rigid.

“—ow, ow, ow!” she shrieks, jumping two octaves. She tries to yank her hand away, but I hold her wrist. “Holy mother of—ow! Brooks! Stop! You’re extracting my soul through my hand!”

“Hold still,” I say, locking my fingers around her wrist to keep her steady. “I have to get the metal flecks out.”

“Ow! Ow! Okay, the Iron Woman has officially passed away,” she pants, her eyes watering as she glares at me through her wild blonde fringe. “She died a noble death in a kitchen in the valley. Please tell Martha from the historical society that my last words were about architectural integrity. Ow, stop rubbing it! Are you doing this on purpose?”

“I’m cleaning your wound, Emmy,” I say, my voice dropping, trying to soothe her.