Page 37 of Nash
Ruby links her arm through Raine's and pulls her toward the yard. "Come on. I'll give you the full tour. We have a goat now."
"You have a what?"
"A goat. His name is Nasty Nash Jr. He has a sparkly collar. He's a menace to society and I love him more than most humans."
Raine looks at Lawrence. Lawrence looks at me.
"She's not joking," I say.
"She never is," Lawrence says. "That's the problem."
Ruby leads them through the yard, Raine on her arm, pointing out the grill, the picnic table, the string lights. Nasty Nash Jr. is tethered to the fence, chewing on something that might have been a paper plate. Raine stops in front of him.
"Ruby. That goat is wearing a rhinestone collar."
"I bedazzled it myself."
"Of course you did." Raine crouches down, and the goat noses her hand. She scratches behind his ears. "He's actually kind of sweet."
"Don't let Kyle hear you say that. Kyle thinks he's a war criminal."
"He head-butted Kyle at the baby shower," I say.
Raine looks up. "The baby shower."
"For the goat," Ruby says. "We threw him a baby shower. There was a balloon arch. There were games. It was beautiful."
Raine stands, brushing off her dress, and turns to Lawrence with an expression caught between laughter and genuine concern for her daughter's life choices. "Lawrence. They threw a baby shower for a goat."
"I heard." Lawrence is studying the fence line. "Nash, the camera on the east side. What's the range on that?"
Ruby rolls her eyes. "Dad. You're meeting the goat. Focus."
"I can meet the goat and assess the perimeter simultaneously."
"Wide angle," I say. "Covers the fence line to the tree line. Knox built the system. I monitor it remotely."
"Motion-activated?"
"Continuous feed."
Ruby looks at Raine. "This is what it's like. All the time. I live in a surveillance state run by men who think small talk is a security briefing."
Raine pats her arm. "Sweetheart, your father asked the waiter at Olive Garden about their emergency exit procedures last month. This is not new information."
"He did what?"
"To be fair," Lawrence says, still looking at the tree line, "that restaurant had one exit. One. For two hundred seats."
"It's an Olive Garden, Dad."
"Fire codes don't care about breadsticks, Ruby."
I answer Lawrence's next three questions about the detail rotation and the camera placement because the man is doing exactly what I would do in his position.
At the east fence line, Lawrence studies the tree line with squared shoulders, running a threat assessment I recognize because I use the same one. His weight shifts to the balls of his feet. His chin lifts, the posture of a man who has been watching for danger long enough that the watching has become structural.
Ruby catches it. "Dad. You're doing the thing."
