CHAPTER 48
The farm the pastor mentioned is impossible to miss. As soon as I turn onto Baxter Loop, I see the signs leading the way.
Safe Anchorage Goat Farm. 2 miles.
Raw goat milk, cheeses, and soaps. 1.3 miles.
Please drive slowly. Goats ahead.
I think this last sign’s a joke until I literally have to brake for three goats stripping bark from a tree on the side of the road. I follow about half a dozen colorfully-painted arrows up a winding driveway until I stop in front of a bright red farmhouse. I feel like I’ve jumped back in time at least sixty or seventy years.
A middle-aged woman in one of those old-fashioned aprons — I think you call that pattern calico even though I’ve never been a hundred percent sure what calico actually means — stands on the porch and waves at me.
“Welc
