Page 21 of Salty Pickle

“Whoa, whoa.” I scramble upright and lift her to her feet. “Take it easy.”

“I’m a very self-sufficient woman!” Her face is red as she pokes my shirt. “Now let me go get my baby!”

She tries to take off, but I hold her shoulders. “You need to think about our baby.”

“Oh, now it’s yours.” She shakes herself loose from me. “Let go!”

I release her, and she takes off in a run-walk, both hands holding her belly like it’s about to bounce off her body.

Staff members have come to their doors to watch the commotion.

“We’re all right,” I say. “Just a situation with a goat.”

I catch the murmurs as I follow her.

“Is she pregnant?”

“Does she not have any shoes?”

“What does he mean, a goat?”

I hate this. Fucking hate it. I take off in a sprint, quickly overtaking Lucy.

“Get my goat!” she calls after me.

Oh, yes, I’m definitely going to get her goat.

We arrive at the elevator bank. Several shocked and laughing people stand there, peering down the hall. One of them is my VP of advertising, Brent.

“You looking for a goat? Yay high?” He holds out his arm.

The woman behind him points across the elevators to the other hall. “It ran past us.”

The building is a letter “H” of hallways, with the elevator bank as the bridge between them.

I rush beyond the onlookers, but on the other side, I’m not sure which way it went. I pause, my dress shoes squeaking on the glossy floor.

Then I hear a roar of voices to my right.

That way.

I take off again. The individual offices in this hall are all closed up, but the corridor ends in an open section of cubicles.

When I get to the large room, a dozen employees have circled up by the back wall.

Hopefully, they’ve cornered it.

I slow down, straightening my jacket and checking my hair. I don’t like to appear disheveled or flustered.

Among the tech support crew, I recognize Ian, the supervisor.

“Everything all right?” I ask as if I haven’t been chasing livestock through Pickle Media.

He looks up. “You know anything about this?”

“About what?” I attempt to nonchalantly rest my elbow on a nearby shelf, but it’s less sturdy than I expect, and it tilts, sending a cascade of white binders crashing to the floor.

The noise draws everyone’s attention, and I see a flash of white.

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