Page 4 of Sheep Calm and Merry On
He must’ve seen all the shit in Noah’s car.
Noah sighed. It was a small area. Devon would find out soon enough anyway. “Yeah. Shitty breakup, great job opportunity. Couldn’t pass it up. The job’s actually in Traverse City, though.”
“Hmm. Teaching?”
God, please don’t let Noah’s random savior happen to know anyone who worked in education in Traverse City. “Yeah.”
Mercifully, the line of inquiry ended as they turned into the driveway of a two-story farmhouse with a patchwork of outbuildings—a barn, a detached garage, a shed…. Noah didn’t know what to call the other one. A second barn?
Either way, Devon pulled up to the garage and pressed a button, presumably to open the door. When nothing happened, he sighed. “Power’s out. Be right back.” And went to open it by hand.
The interior of the garage didn’t reveal much. There was a block heater for the truck, the typical pieces of scrap wood you found on any working farm. Nothing that said human entrails! Turn your insides to your outsides!
It was possible Noah was cold enough to have gotten delirious, because the idea made him giggle. Maybe Devon would roast him alive. That would be nice.
“One more question,” Devon said when he was unlocking the side door to the house. “How do you feel about dogs?”
“Uh,” said Noah, but he didn’t have time to say anything else before a black-and-white blur bounded outside.
For the time being, it was ignoring Noah, concentrating instead on Devon. Its tail wagged furiously as Devon petted at it. Noah thought he’d try to shoo it back inside. Instead, the dog accepted exactly four seconds of pets and then booked it toward the field, ignoring Noah entirely.
“Uh,” Noah said again. “Do you need to go get it?”
“Nah, he’ll be back in a few minutes. He’s gotta see a man about a couple dozen sheep.” He gestured for Noah to enter first. “C’mon, we’re letting the heat out. Get inside. I’m going to go start the jenny.”
With basically no other option, save running into the field after the dog, Noah obeyed.
He couldn’t see much. Nothing new there; the most he’d seen in the past couple hours had been the inside of Devon’s garage when the truck headlights illuminated it. But there was a rechargeable flashlight plugged in and glowing faintly nearby, so he grabbed that and flicked it on.
He was standing in a small mudroom off the farmhouse kitchen. The floors looked original—worn but clean. The room contained a chest freezer, a washer and dryer, and at least four different coat racks affixed to various walls, some hung with dog leashes and others with winter clothes, rain gear, and extra sets of keys. Noah wrangled himself out of his coat and hung it up, then set his boots on one of those fancy electric boot-drying racks. Talk about creature comforts.
Noah looked at the dryer, then down at his wet jeans. He thought about walking around a stranger’s farmhouse in his underpants.
And decided to risk it. He wasn’t going to freeze to death in Devon’s house in the next half hour. It was, like, a balmy sixty-two degrees in here. Devon probably had a blanket somewhere, or a spare pair of pants. He shoved his jeans into the dryer and walked farther into the house.
It was a nice place, but lived-in. Sections of the kitchen cupboards had worn paint. The floor in front of the sink and the fridge dipped a little, as though too many people had stood there washing dishes or deciding on a midnight snack. Beyond the kitchen, a little dining room held a bay window with a view of what Noah assumed, but couldn’t tell in the current weather conditions, was a field.
Off the dining room was a living area that looked over the front porch, and to the right, a hallway. That seemed like the likeliest place to find a blanket or pants, so Noah pushed open the first door, expecting to find a linen closet, and found a small office instead.
The lights came on.
It took Noah a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness, though the room itself was done in subdued dark-green paint and walnut wainscoting. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held seemingly everything except books—kids’ trophies, larger ones, medals, framed photographs.
The ones closest to Noah were of sheep.
Not cute little lambs. Not the sweet, docile-looking puffballs of cartoons and cozy documentaries about Norway. Massive, fat, curly-haired cowlike beings, with wrinkles on wrinkles and fuck-off horns and teeny-tiny faces poking out from their wool hoods. Terrifying demon sheep.
Judging from the ribbons on display next to and in some of the photographs, prize-winning terrifying demon sheep.
Noah guessed Devon hadn’t been making a euphemism when he said the dog was going to see a man about several dozen sheep.
The next shelf seemed to be dedicated to the dog, a black-and-white border collie with one ear that went straight up and one that flopped over halfway. Every picture spoke of the genuine affability only certain dogs could pull off—eyes bright, mouth open in a humanlike smile, tongue lolling.
But it was the third shelf that brought Noah up short. The shit in this shelf he actually recognized.
Because he’d played in that arena a lifetime ago. He’d taken shots from that circle. He’d stood on that blue line while the national anthem played.
And apparently so had Devon.
