Page 118 of One Adult, Please

"A system," Diane says.

"A system. Designed by me. In crayon. It involves questions and a garden and a bridge and a goat you're going to have to accept as a permanent feature of the experience. The system is non-negotiable. The goat is non-negotiable. The churros are currently unavailable but we're working on it."

Diane looks at me. She looks at them. "You built all this?" she says. "The four of you?"

"Five," I say. "Kevin helped. Kevin's the goat. Kevin's contribution is mostly property damage, but he headbutted a zombie into a fountain. So he's earned a temporary commendation."

Diane does something I don't expect. She laughs. It's short and rough. "What kind of questions?" she asks.

"Essential ones. Are you bitten. Are you sick. How do you feel about goats."

"I feel fine about goats."

"Then you're already ahead."

I look at our park. Our park that's about to become the bigger our. The our that includes strangers and kids and a woman named Diane who laughs like a cold engine and carries her rifle in the maybe position.

"Welcome to WonderSphere," I say. "Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. Management isn't responsible for goat-related incidents. Enjoy your stay."

I open the gate.

28

THE WAITING GARDEN

GRANT

The first new person through the gate is the child with the stuffed animal.

She's small. Five, maybe six. The stuffed animal is a bear. Its fur's matted, one eye's missing, and its body's compressed by years of being held too tight. Her mother is behind her, one hand on the girl's shoulder. The hand is steady. The mother's face is not.

Nobody can fix this. Nobody can fix any of this. But the girl is through the gate.

Grace is at the turnstile, doing intake. "Name?" Grace asks the mother.

"Sara. This is Lily."

Grace writes SARA and LILY on the clipboard in red crayon. Underneath, she writes: has a bear. Not a real bear. A stuffy bear. No bites visible.

It's thorough, empathetic, utterly chaotic, and somehow the most effective triage process I've ever witnessed, including the ones I've used in veterinary emergency rooms.

"Are either of you bitten?" Grace asks.

Sara shakes her head.

"Sick? Fever? Any general feelings of wanting to eat people?"

"No."

"How do you feel about goats?"

Sara blinks. "What?"

"It's a standard question. We have a goat. His name is Kevin. He's complicated. Scale of one to ten, how comfortable are you with unsanctioned headbutting?"

Sara looks at her daughter. Lily's mouth moves. The precursor to a smile.

"I like goats," Lily says.