“All right.” Myron threw back the rest of his beer, then stood. “You guys wait here. I’ll wrangle up some clean towels.”

Joel was the first to speak after Myron left the porch. “I thought you guys were joking,” he said, still in shock. He turned to Finn. “So you’re really…?”

She nodded.

Then Zadie. “And you’re…?”

She nodded also.

“I think I need a minute.” Joel stood up slowly and wandered into the yard. The girls watched him sit down and flop onto his back like he was about to make snow angels in the grass.

“He does this when he feels overwhelmed,” Zadie said. “He’ll be fine in an hour.”

A warm step pyramid of freshly dried towels in his arms, Myron led the girls to their quarters. “Neither of you are allergic to hay, are you?” he asked as they crossed the barn’s threshold. Sure enough, there was a large stack of hay against one wall, but this was clearly not an ordinary barn. It appeared the rest of the space was being used as a workshop. Several half-finished woodworking projects were in the middle of being either clamped, sanded, or routed. A heavy-duty steel rack on the far end of the shop organized the raw lumber into neat rows of oak, walnut, maple, and pine, planks that would someday become tables and the chairs gathered around those tables.

“This is my workshop.” There was pride in Myron’s voice as he swept his palm across the top of a dresser he was in the middle of finishing. “This girl could use another coat,” he said, examining the slightly patchy stain.

“It’s beautiful,” Zadie said, admiring the delicate hand-routed molding. “Is this what you do for a living?”

“Part of it.” Myron surveyed the shop like a stranger would. “The girls hate it, though.” Before he could explain why, he said, “Apartment’s upstairs.”

The sisters followed Myron up a flight of rickety wooden stairs to the second floor. To their surprise, they arrived to find the apartment already occupied. “Scooter! What are you doing up here?” The goat peered up at Myron with its elongated pupils. A partially chewed pillow lay at its feet, stuffing clinging to its beard.

“Come on. Time to go.” He led the goat by the collar to the top of the stairs. Scooter let out a bleat of consternation and squeezed past Finn and Zadie, bell jingling as he trotted down the stairs. Myron bent down to pick up the disemboweled pillow. “Sorry about that. Left the door open.”

“It’s cool. I like goats,” Finn said.

“Anyway,” he continued, setting the towels down on the arm of the couch, “make yourselves at home. There’s soap and shampoo in the bathroom if you need it. We’re on a well here, so the water smells kinda funny, but there’s nothing wrong with it. I promise.”