1. Ember #2
“Somebody has to! If my daughter is going to be an eccentric millionaire goat lady, I’m going to be the most prepared mother in the state. Just… don’t do anything reckless until I look up the zoning laws, okay?”
“Too late,” I murmur, smiling. “But I love you.”
“Love you too, crazy pants. Text me the pictures. I want to see these goats.”
The line clicks off, leaving the apartment quiet again.
I look back at the laptop screen.
The real estate agent’s contact page is open, and right beneath the listing for The Gilded Goat is a large, gray button. My fingers are shaking a little as I track the mouse across the pad.
This is stupid.
This is the single most irresponsible thing a person could do with their money.
I click it.
The screen loads for two agonizing seconds before a cascade of digital gold confetti falls down the monitor, followed by a polite, automated pop-up: Submission Successful. An agent will contact you within twenty-four hours. Welcome to Suncrest Hollow.
Well… shit.
If the goats don’t like the neon pink barn doors, well… I have $11,000,000 left. I’ll just build them a matching glitter gazebo.
I’m pretty sure I’m a genius.
? ? ?
The steering wheel of my customized, glitter-wrapped pickup truck feels massive under my hands as I cruise down the state highway.
The rental agency in the city couldn’t help me with my vision, so I made the next crazy choice and bought this beast, having it wrapped in sparkling pink before I even left the zip code.
It is a vehicle so big it feels like I’m driving a motorized two-story house. Every time the massive tires hit a seam in the asphalt, the entire cabin shakes with a violence that makes my teeth rattle.
It’s objectively ridiculous, a neon-pink beacon of absurdity screaming across the countryside, but honestly? I’m a multi-millionaire. If I want to drive a truck that looks like a disco ball had a mid-life crisis, why would I not?
Since the win, I’ve already bought a vintage espresso machine I don’t know how to use, an absurdly expensive silk robe I’m terrified to wear, and I’ve quietly funneled a life-changing amount of cash into my parents’ accounts.
They spent two hours crying and insisting they couldn’t possibly take it, but once they realized I wasn’t backing down, their mood shifted into a very happy, very relieved sort of glow.
I’ve been driving for two hours, watching the concrete towers and multi-layered overpasses of the city slowly dissolve into rolling green hills, fractured wooden fences, and billboards advertising tractor parts and seed corn.
The air coming through the open windows actually smells like grass instead of exhaust fumes and hot garbage.
It’s weird. It’s almost sweet.
According to the giant, glowing map on my dashboard, I am exactly four miles from the municipal border of Suncrest Hollow.
I reach into the passenger seat, digging through a pile of old empty snack wrappers until my fingers wrap around the printout of the Zillow page.
The farmhouse looks beautiful in the afternoon light, its wraparound porch tilted at that slight, romantic angle.
The listing agent, a woman named Sara, had confirmed over the phone that the twelve goats were “healthy, stubborn, and currently eating the back deck.”
The road dips down, twisting through a dense, heavy canopy of ancient oak trees that filter the sunlight into long, dusty green fingers across the hood of the truck. The shadows dance over the glittery paint, rhythmic and hypnotic.
And then, the trees clear.
The highway flattens out, changing from worn gray asphalt into a dark, neatly paved main street. A wooden sign, weathered by decades of winters and carved with a slightly peeling gold font, sits on the grassy shoulder:
WELCOME TO SUNCREST HOLLOW. POPULATION 3,200. PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY.
Well if this goes horribly wrong, at least I’ll have a great story for my future memoir: Wealthy, Unsupervised, and Making Terrible Decisions.
I slow the truck down, my boot pressing lightly on the brake pedal as the town opens up around me.
The main drag is lined with low, two-story brick buildings, their storefront windows displaying handmade quilts, antique rocking chairs, and signs for fresh cider.
There’s a diner with a faded neon clock in the window that reads OPEN, a small hardware store with a display of glittering steel shovels stacked out front, and a white-steepled church sitting at the far end of a manicured town square.
A small bakery down the block is venting the smell of warm yeast and cinnamon into the air, and for a second, my stomach does a little flip of hunger.
People are actually walking on the sidewalks.
Not running, not power-walking with airpods jammed into their ears while aggressively avoiding eye contact, but just… strolling.
A woman carries a basket like she has never once considered doomscrolling.
An old man in a flannel shirt is sitting on a green bench, holding a paper cup of coffee, and as my massive truck rolls past, he actually lifts his hand and gives me a slow, neighborly nod.
I’m not saying I’m the main character, but the sunlight hits the windshield dramatically enough that I feel like I should be.
I pull the truck up to a red light—the only traffic light in the entire town, from the looks of it—and let out a slow, deep breath.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder.
Mom: I have researched goat temperament. They are “opinionated but responsive to snacks.” This feels like it applies to you as well.
I smile, looking out at the street, the shadow of the brick buildings stretching across the pavement.
The light turns green. I shift my foot to the gas, the truck rumbling forward into the heart of Suncrest Hollow.
“Get ready, everyone,” I whisper to the empty cab, thinking of the twelve goats I haven’t met yet. “The glitter is here.”