The herd of goats whispers, We’re tired of the snow. I whisper back, I know, scratch between their curved horns. Four of them chew hay, three jostle for feed, and one is on the milking table, udders full and bleating when a great boom sounds against the door. The youth brigade stomps forth in heavy boots, brandishing chains and curses, expressions that age knows by heart. I can no longer hide. I hold out my hands for shackles, and they march me into the trees, a crone in their midst, a villain from a fairy tale. If this were true, I could conjure some magic to escape. But stories are only stories, which the brigade doesn’t know, so I am forced down into the cold river, made to gather stones as I grow numb, until I grow heavy enough to sink. The sun blinks through branches, the cries of the goats riding the thick air. I close my eyes. How light my eyelids feel, my hair, as I am swept beneath the current. The brigade ignores me. They will still ignore me when my bones return, will never acknowledge my haunting as they look in the mirror at their own aging faces. But the goats will know. They will butt their horns against the doors of their stalls. They will heel to the sound of my rattling.