There are some roadside goats, tethered to lonely triangles of tin, who used to be loved. Handpicked just after birth by a girl and a boy clinging onto a wire fence.
Hazel woke to the sound of the van idling in the driveway next door. The throb of the engine vibrated the meat of her insides. She waited for the hard slide and crash of the vehicle’s doors. Once, twice. Then again.