Page 7 of The Goat Next Door

She tries again, throwing her entire body weight downward, then pulling upward. The metal tracks groan, completely jammed.

I keep my eyes on my work. Thwack. I drive a nail into the wood. Thwack.

From behind me, I hear her huffing, her breath catching in her throat as she strains against the metal.

A few seconds later, there’s a loud, echoing metallic clang followed by a frustrated, sharp, “Oh, for the absolute love of God, you stupid piece of shit—”

I shouldn’t look.

I know I shouldn’t look.

I’m the fire chief of this town. I have a five-year-old daughter to pick up from kindergarten later, a quiet life I have spent years meticulously stabilizing, and a strict policy against getting involved in self-inflicted urban disasters.

I don’t have the time, the energy, or the emotional bandwidth for a girl who treats rural agriculture like a whimsical weekend retreat.

But then I hear a heavy thud, followed by the sound of her boots sliding on the loose shale.

I close my eyes.

I hate my mother for raising me with a conscience.

I can already feel the headache forming behind my eyes, because I know exactly what I’m about to do, and I know I’m going to regret it.

I sigh, dropping my chin to my chest, and glance over my shoulder.

She has somehow managed to get the door open about two feet. Now, she is attempting to drag a massive, reinforced cardboard wardrobe box out of the narrow opening.

She’s straining violently, her face turning a deep, flushed shade of crimson that makes her blonde curls stand out even more.

“Hey!” I call out, taking a step toward her. “Stop. Leave it.”

Emmy snaps her head around, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. “It’s fine! I can do it myself. I am a strong, independent woman. I just need to… find the right structural leverage point.”

She gives the box another desperate shove. Her right foot slips again on the gravel. She tilts precariously, her balance entirely gone, nearly taking the box down on top of her.

“Dammit,” I mutter, tossing the framing hammer into my leather tool belt with a heavy thud.

I drag a heavy hand over my face, letting out a long, exhausted breath. “Fine. Yeah. Stop moving before you break your spine. I can help you get the boxes inside.”

“Oh, looking for a tip already?” she asks, though she instantly steps back, looking immensely relieved as she wipes a stray curl out of her eyes with the back of a dirty hand.

I don’t say a word as I approach, which I consider an act of extreme neighborly mercy.

I step right into her personal space, gently but firmly nudging her to the side with my forearm. I reach into the truck bed, dig my gloved hands beneath the heavy plastic strapping of the wardrobe box, and hoist the entire thing out using one clean, practiced motion.

“Lead the way,” I mutter, holding the massive box against my chest. “Let’s get this over with.”

I follow her the short walk across the field, past the property line, and up the creaking wooden steps of the porch.

“Wow,” she says, walking backward. “That looked aggressively masculine. I mean, genuinely. You lifted that like it contained feathers.”

“It’s clothes.”

“How do you know?”

“It says wardrobe on the side,” I deadpan.

“Oh.” She pauses. “Right. God, you’re observant. That’s intimidating.”