Devin woke to a soft bleating sound and wondered where the hell he was. A strange ceiling of upward-sloping 2x4s arranged like slices of a pie.
Another bleat.
Alone in a large bed with—he slid a hand out—a warm spot close beside him. Somewhere in the night Fitz had relinquished the second pillow to Devin.
A whispered, “Hush you. It’s almost warm,” brought Devin the rest of the way awake. The newborn kid was on its feet in the little pen with its nose pressed hard against the screen; Fitz was curled up just outside the pen but still in the wash of the heat lamp, revealing exactly where his true loyalties lay.
And then an impossible mirage moved across from the shadowed kitchen, holding a baby bottle.
Tiffany, clothed only in her hair, reached into the pen, lifted out the goat, and the
