The words rip loose from somewhere deep inside me, raw and shrill. The goat freezes. For one glorious second, I think I’ve won.
Then it pisses on the chamomile.
A sound escapes me—half-laugh, half-sob. Of course. Of course! Why would the goat do what I want it to? Why would Sasha? Why would anyone? I feel like I’ve spent my whole life being shunted from one manipulator to the next. Baba, Sasha—now, I’ve got a f*****g goat bossing me around, wrecking the last things left that I care about and pissing on the remains.
I sink to my knees, the hem of my nightgown soaking up the dirty water from last night’s rain, and let the tears come. I cry like I haven’t since I was a little girl. It’s not about the garden, not really. It’s about Sasha leaving without warning, about the blood on his gun t
