Page 57 of Salty Pickle

She’s almost out. I toss the rest of the carrots onto the concrete floor. Just a little farther, then yes, her butt is out of the way, and I close and latch the door.

“Is it too hot for her out there?” Lucy asks.

I flip two switches, one for the overhead fan on the balcony, and another for a side fan with a built-in mister.

“Oh, that’s lovely!” Lucy stands by the door as her goat preens in the thin spray. “We’ll get her a spread of hay and some water, and she’ll be all right.” She turns, her face drawn and pale. “I think I should sit down.”

“I have a spare room. Come on.”

She doesn’t move, holding onto the back of the sofa. She’s fading completely.

“Okay, up you go.” I pick her up—I swear I’ve carried her more than any woman in my life—and take her down the hall.

I lay her on the bed and turn on the overhead fan.

She curls onto her side and runs a hand over the blue and white French provincial bedspread. “It’s so lovely in here.”

“I’ll get you some water.”

“And some for Matilda.”

“Some for her, too.”

I fill a glass with filtered water and take it to her.

“Matilda?”

“Right.” She really does care more for that goat than for herself.

I return to the kitchen to pull out a huge Dutch oven from a lower cabinet and fill it with water. The goat is ingesting carrots and pooping them out at a similar rate. I’ll have to warn my housekeeper.

I open the door and slide the water out.

Then I return to Lucy. “All handled.”

“Good.” Her eyes flutter. “I’m sorry I’m so much trouble. She’s all I have.”

“No, you also have me.”

She manages a smile. “I do. And you take good care of us.”

I sit on the edge of the bed. “What should I get for you two?”

“Pellets for Matilda and some hay. Can you find that in the city?”

“I’ll figure it out. And for you?”

“You have already done so much.”

“It’s fine. We’re fine.” I frown. “Are you sure you don’t want to call your family?”

At that, a single tear escapes from the corner of her eye and slides to the bedspread. “Not yet. Not unless I have to.”

There has to be more at play than environmental differences. It’s probably a story for later. “Okay. You rest.”

She nods, and I head for the door.

“Court?”

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