23. Sophie
SOPHIE
An hour later, after my phone had finally charged enough to rejoin modern civilization, I grabbed it off the charger so fast I nearly pulled the cord out of the wall.
Only one person might know where the animals were. Well, technically several people probably knew where they were. The handler. The sheriff. Dr. Keller. But I could only call one person without raising my blood pressure to medically fascinating levels.
I found the Maplewood Falls Veterinary Clinic number in my recent calls, took a steadying breath, and pressed dial.
My foot started bouncing beneath the table.
My entire body seemed physically incapable of waiting for anything anymore.
I spent three rings mentally preparing myself for every possible answer.
None of them were particularly encouraging.
In one scenario they’d already left. In another they’d been split up.
In a third, I’d somehow ended up crying into my coffee again before two o’clock.
My imagination really did deserve an employee-of-the-month plaque for productivity.
“Maplewood Falls Veterinary Clinic. Can I help you?” said the receptionist in a bright, cheerful voice.
“Hi, Amy. It’s Sophie.” I tried to sound casual, normal, like people routinely phoned veterinary clinics because they’d become emotionally attached to borrowed goats over the course of one weekend. Totally ordinary behavior.
“Oh! Hi, Sophie!” she said immediately. “How are you?” Warm. Friendly. Completely unsuspecting. Clearly she hadn’t yet received the deluxe edition of this morning’s gossip.
It was a loaded question, possibly the most dangerous question anyone had asked me all day. There simply wasn’t a socially acceptable answer somewhere between fine and briefly incarcerated.
“I’ve… had an interesting morning.” Understatement of the century.
She laughed. “Around here, that usually means somebody escaped with a peacock.” She said it so naturally that I had absolutely no doubt this had happened at least once. Probably more than once. Maplewood Falls had an oddly high tolerance for poultry-related emergencies.
“Close.” Not species-wise. Or legally. But spiritually? Surprisingly close.
“Should I ask?” I could practically hear the smile in her voice. The kind that understood small towns produced wonderfully strange stories on a regular basis.
“Probably not.” Mostly because explaining my morning from the beginning would require diagrams, emotional support snacks, and at least forty-five uninterrupted minutes.
“Fair enough. So, how can I help?”
“I was wondering…” I twisted a strand of hair around my finger.
“Did Dr. Keller end up with the festival animals? The goat and alpacas and the little donkey?” I held my breath without meaning to.
Amazing how quickly four slightly ridiculous farm animals had become the center of my emotional universe.
Two days ago, I couldn’t have picked Bandit out of a lineup.
Now I was one unanswered phone call away from developing stress-induced gray hair.
“Oh, yes.” Amy’s voice brightened another three levels.
“They were here for a little while. Oh my goodness, they were adorable. Especially that tiny donkey.” She sighed happily, like she’d clearly spent quality time being charmed.
“I wanted to take him home. He has the sweetest little face. And the goat…” She laughed.
“He escaped one of the exam rooms for about thirty seconds and wandered into reception like he owned the place. Dr. Keller said all their health checks looked good. Everyone got examined. Hooves, teeth, ears, the whole works. One of the alpacas sneezed on Tiffany from accounting.” She paused to laugh again.
“Twice, actually. Poor Tiffany never even saw that coming. They certainly made the morning more entertaining.”
“So…” I said carefully. “Where are they now?”
“Oh. They’re not here anymore.”
“They’re not?” My fingers gripped the phone a little tighter.
“I thought maybe Dr. Keller had decided to keep them.” It wasn’t a particularly logical plan.
Veterinary clinics generally weren’t known for collecting goats the way people collected houseplants.
Still, hope wasn’t especially interested in logistics.
“No. The handler had another delivery this morning and couldn’t take them right away, so they needed somewhere to stay for a day or two.” Papers rustled in the background as she searched for something. “It all happened pretty quickly.”
“A day or two?” I sat up straighter. Temporary. Temporary wasn’t permanent. Temporary meant there was still a window. Tiny. Possibly closing. But still a window.
“Uh-huh.”
“So… where are they?” I asked, trying very hard to sound like a calm, emotionally balanced adult instead of someone one sentence away from stealing another vehicle. Personal growth. I was aiming for at least twenty-four hours between transportation-related crimes.
“They’re staying at Hills Farm.”
“Hills Farm?” The name sounded vaguely familiar. Or maybe every farm sounded vaguely familiar. There were only so many combinations of hills, meadows, creeks, and maple trees available to rural communities.
“It’s a little hobby farm out on Route Twelve.” I could hear keyboard clicks in the background. “About forty-five minutes from town. The Petersons own it. They’re really sweet. They help out whenever somebody’s in a bind.”
Hope fluttered cautiously inside my chest. Small. Fragile. Wearing a tiny helmet because, frankly, it’d been through a lot today.
“So they’re keeping them?” Please say yes. Please let one nice family have unexpectedly fallen in love with four festival animals. Stranger things had happened. I’d kissed a sheriff yesterday and been arrested by him today. Reality had already abandoned conventional storytelling.
“No. This is just temporary.”
My shoulders sagged. I physically felt hope slide down another couple of inches.
“The Petersons don’t really have the room,” Amy continued apologetically.
“They’re a small hobby farm. A couple of horses, some chickens, a few sheep.
They offered to help, but once the handler finishes his other job, he’s supposed to pick everyone up again.
” I could hear genuine disappointment in her voice, like she’d already imagined keeping them too.
Bandit had left tiny emotional casualties all over town.
“And then…” I swallowed. My throat suddenly felt far too tight for such a simple question. “They go to auction?” I already knew the answer. I just needed to hear it out loud because sometimes hope insisted on demanding a second opinion.
“I think that’s still the plan.” Her voice softened. “Nobody’s said otherwise.”
Silence settled between us, the kind that seemed to stretch much longer than it actually lasted.
“Sophie?” Amy asked gently, the way people did when they thought you might’ve started crying without warning.
“I’m here.” Barely. Emotionally, I was somewhere out on Route Twelve already, standing in a pasture negotiating with complete strangers.
“I’m sorry it’s not what you wanted to hear,” said Amy. Nothing about it felt rehearsed, just genuine kindness from someone who understood that sometimes loving animals made life unnecessarily complicated.
I closed my eyes briefly, mostly because if I kept them open, I suspected I’d start arguing with reality. And reality was notoriously difficult to negotiate with.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “Thanks for telling me.” Better uncomfortable truth than comforting ignorance. Even if the truth currently felt like someone had dropped a cinder block directly onto my chest.
After we hung up, I stared at my phone for several seconds. The black screen reflected my face back at me.
Temporary.
That word echoed around my head. Temporary wasn’t forever. Temporary meant the story wasn’t finished yet. Temporary was good. Not ideal. Definitely not ideal. But I’d lowered my standards considerably over the course of the day.
Temporary meant there was still time. Time hadn’t run out. It was merely jogging a little faster than I’d like.
Time to convince someone.
Farmers were practical people. Practical people could sometimes be persuaded with practical solutions. I hoped. I had absolutely no evidence supporting this theory, but optimism had climbed back into the driver’s seat.
It was time to stop those animals from disappearing into an auction where Bandit could end up on one farm, Theo somewhere else, Daisy somewhere else again, and the little donkey…
I couldn’t even finish that thought. My brain simply slammed on the brakes every time it reached that part of the sentence.
Separating them suddenly felt wrong in a way I couldn’t properly explain.
They belonged together. The same way families belonged together.
The same way weird little groups somehow became exactly the right group.
The Petersons just needed convincing. Reasonable people could be reasoned with. I was choosing to believe that very aggressively until proven otherwise.
Maybe they thought they couldn’t afford it. Which, admittedly, was a perfectly sensible concern. Hay wasn’t free. Neither were vet bills. Or fences. Or whatever else animals required besides unlimited affection and occasional grass cookies.
I could help. I’d pay for the feed, the hay. I’d even learn the difference between good hay and bad hay if necessary. Until recently I’d assumed hay was just… hay. Apparently adulthood contained an alarming number of specialized hay categories.
I’d pay for veterinary bills if I had to. Dr. Keller already seemed fond of them. Maybe he’d even give them the occasional please stop stealing medical equipment discount.
I’d eaten instant noodles through most of my twenties.
I could survive on peanut butter sandwiches for a few months if it meant keeping four ridiculously lovable animals together.
I’d lived through ramen, discount macaroni, and whatever mysterious canned soup happened to be on sale that week.
Compared to those years, voluntarily funding goat food almost sounded luxurious.
My plan was brilliant. It arrived in my head with such confidence, as though I’d already solved every problem despite possessing approximately twelve percent of the necessary information.
But compared to stealing a livestock truck, this actually represented measurable personal growth.
I jumped to my feet so quickly my chair nearly tipped backward. I caught it at the last second with one hand, earning myself several curious looks from the guests eating lunch. I couldn’t even stand up like a normal person anymore.
Sarah looked up from the front desk where she was checking in a guest. She smiled warmly, slid a registration card across the counter, answered a question about breakfast hours, and then handed over a brass room key attached to one of those oversized wooden keychains that looked heavy enough to anchor a small fishing boat.
Once the guest was headed toward their room, she walked toward me, one eyebrow already lifted. Sarah had developed an impressive ability to recognize the exact expression I wore whenever I was about to suggest something that sounded completely reasonable inside my own head.
“Everything okay?”
I smiled brightly, possibly a little too brightly. “Now, before you say no. I need a favor.”
She folded her arms. “Which is?”
I took a breath, deep enough to make this sound like a perfectly ordinary request instead of the beginning of another spectacularly questionable adventure.
“Can I borrow your car?”