Page 87 of Things I Read About

The door is open.

I watch as his stature changes. His back pulls taut and he seems to grow two or three inches somehow. It’s intense. Even more so when he turns and puts his finger to his lips.

I nod, agreeing to stay quiet. Then he puts up a hand, and I nod again, acknowledging I need to stay behind.

He pulls his gun from the belt at his back and disappears into the house.

I wait, trying to keep my breathing steady. I wring my hands, which is better than feeling them shake at my sides.

I jump out of my skin when I hear him.

“Sally!”

I rush in through the kitchen and…

Oh no.Nonononono…

“What the hell is that thing doing in the house?” He points at the white goat, Katniss or Primrose, standing tall in the middle of the living room. It’s Katniss, I think.

“I don’t know!”

“Stop. You’ll step in the glass.”

I was so busy looking at the goat—that is twisted up in one of Sadie’s imported cashmere throw blankets—that I missed the destruction right ahead of me.

The glass coffee table is completely shattered. And I am only in socks, since I left the work boots in the garage.

It’s not just glass, either. Mud, grass, and something that looks like crackers. Paper, shreds of paper…

“Holy—”

“Yeah.Someonemust have left the back doorandthe third gate open.” Nate glares at me, but then we’re both distracted by Katniss, who starts to move, pulling the blanket with her.

“No! No, Katniss!”

The stupid house answers me. “Ok-ay Sad-die. Ordering Catnip.”

The goat starts bleating.

“Wait, cancel!” I yell at the ceiling.

The ceiling replies, “What would you like for me to cancel, Sadie?”

“It’s theohsound,” Nate yells back at me. “It thinks you’re sayinghomeand then does what you say.”

He barely gets the word out before the endlessly annoying pop songWhatcha Saystarts blasting through the house.

“Home, Stop!” Nate commands. But of course, it doesn’t obey him. Or it can’t hear him, because the house speaker volume is always set to maximum.

“Why is it so loud?”

“Because someone kept turning it up during the four hours they were playing piano, to the same song on repeat.”

As my cheeks burn, I grit my teeth and turn around. The iPad is on the bar in the kitchen. But I hear the crunching noises behind me.

“Stop, Sally. The goat’s following you. I need to get that blanket off.”

But I don’t care, I need the song to stop. And the goat to stop. And the yelling to stop. The glares and the condescension to stop.