Page 15 of Past Due

“Okay, so, maybe not the goose part,” I agreed, “but the rest of it? Absolutely. I mean, you taught me how to milk a goat! You gave me a science lesson on homogenized milk. You’ve shown me how much work goes into a farm. This is something people would pay good money to experience.”

“I don’t like people,” she grumbled.

“You like me.”

She dramatically harrumphed. “I did.”

“Fair enough.”

We worked quietly for a few moments before she sighed and asked, “Just how much are we talking about per night?”

I smiled triumphantly and bumped her hip with mine. “Considering how nice your guest room is? Probably double what the other guest houses charge. And! You also get free labor out of your guests!”

“That is a good point,” she muttered, still not fully convinced. “The internet is an issue, though. It’s hard to share photo of yourself feeding chickens and milking goats without it.”

“True.” I deflated at that realization. I hadn’t been able to send a text or email at all last night or this morning. “Maybe there’s a way to boost your signal?”

“Well,” she said, reaching for another lid, “I have been considering joining some neighbors who are trying to get together enough interest in a satellite tower for our side of the mountain.” She screwed the lid on tightly. “It might be worth it.”

“Or you sell the experience as off the grid,” I suggested. “Skip the internet issues altogether.”

“That’s an idea.” She stowed the last of the milk in the refrigerator. “Get your boots and jacket. We’ll workshop this on the way out to check on the sheep.”

Feeling excited by the prospect of helping Agnesa start a new venture, I hustled to hop back into my boots and jacket. The directions the café teenager had given me fell out of my pocket, and Agnesa picked it up. She read the note from the old man and chortled.

“Do I even want to know what he wrote?” I asked while zipping up my jacket.

“He says you’re strange and stubborn like me, and I should let you stay the night so you don’t fall down the mountain in the dark and break your neck.”

“Aw, sweet guy,” I remarked sarcastically.

“He’s my uncle,” she explained, handing back the note. “My mother’s oldest brother,” she clarified. “He’s always been like that.”

“Crotchety?”

She laughed. “Yes.”

Agnesa looped her arm through mine. “Let me tell you about the time he stole two of my goats to pay back a debt my father owed him from when they were twelve-years-old...”

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