“Oh,” Mira sighs. “He must be lost.”
His little pink nose twitches and my stomach drops. His large black eyes are surrounded by white feathery lashes, and his ears jut forward, the pink veins easily visible. Loose folds of skin hang around his neck, like he is wearing oversized clothes that don’t quite fit him yet.
“It’s a Cormo,” Aidan says.
“It’s a lamb, silly!” Mira protests.
“A Cormo sheep,” he clarifies.
Seth taps the horn.
I leap across the seat and pull his hands away. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to get him to move out of the middle of the road?”
“We can’t just leave him here,” I say, opening my door and stepping out. “He’s only a baby. Maybe an orphan.”
“Wait! The seats! You know what a sheep will do to these seats?”
I am already an arm’s length from the lamb. He doesn’t move except to lift his soft black eyes to mine. “Hey, fella.” I crouch and hold out my hand. He doesn’t startle so I stretch out farther and touch his muzzle. His nose is cold, but his wool is like warm velvet. He pushes his nose up against my palm.
Baaaa.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “We’ll help you find your mama.” I stand and scoop my hands around his middle, and I’m surprised when he snuggles right into my arms. I walk back to the car and scoot in, the lamb close against my chest. Aidan and Mira lean over the seat and run their hands over his back. He flinches for just a moment, then relaxes against me again.
Seth keeps his hands on the steering wheel. “His mom and dad are probably watching us lambnap him.”
“Nope!” Mira proclaims.
“Doesn’t look like it to me either,” Aidan says.
“We’ll ask in town,” I tell him.
Seth puts the car into gear and moves on. “That is, if there’s a town.”
“Lodging sign, remember?”
He glances at the lamb and finally reaches over and briefly touches his leg. “Skinny” is all he says. I nuzzle my face into the lamb’s neck, breathing in the earthy wool and pink skin beneath, and wonder how long it will be before Mira wants to name him.
9
THE TOWN OF DRIVBY is clearly marked with a small red sign: POPULATION 344. Our narrow lane wriggles down into a small valley and then forks, looking like it has been cleaved in two by a bunched row of mismatched buildings. Across from them is a patchwork of barns and homes, and tucked somewhere behind them is a towering steeple, which must belong to a church.
“Which way?” Seth asks.
“Right!” Aidan says, just in time because Seth is not slowing for directions. “Left looks like it takes you straight on through.”
Seth veers right, and we find ourselves in what must be the heart of Drivby. Three hundred and forty-four seems a generous estimation for this handful of a town. The first building on the cleaved lane is a café, which has several cars out front, including a long black limousine. A motorcycle flanks one side of the limo, and a rusted-out truck is on the other.
Seth’s head spins for a second look as we pass. “They must serve some damn good coffee.”
“I don’t see a gas station,” Mira says.
“Told you.”
“Over there. What’s that?” Across the street, past a row of three houses, is a sign, MECHANIC, and in front of a converted barn are two weathered pumps.
“I’ve never seen pumps like that,” Seth says.