Dick settles into more of a recline, his elbow braced across the back of the bedroll, cold let to creep up through the earth under his seat.

There’s no outward reaction to firm denial, past a twinge of doubt between his brows for the swift finality of it. No. In much the same way a caiman might tolerate a frog’s flopped landing or a scatter of loose dirt from a creature traipsing along the bank, he weathers it with an impassive kind of stillness. His follow-up was curiously specific.

“Why a goat?”