by Meggie Royer

March 2026

Closing her eyes, Alice skimmed the slick yellow surface of the butter cow with both hands. The belly and rump were firm but caved slightly beneath her touch; oil swirling from her fingers. This was better, she thought, than standing on the other side of the large panes of refrigerated glass, staring in. From outside came the crackling sound of cicadas, heat sticking to every blade of glass. The humidity was so thick it rivaled the ropes of mosquitos parading along the breeze.

Suddenly, she craved peaches. The concession stand used to keep dozens of cans stacked on top of one another in the back room, though they’d once burst due to what most assumed was the summer warmth, spouting gummy streams of juice across every appliance, corner, and wall. It had taken weeks to remove the residue from the tiled floor. There had been murmurs all around town about the incident, the way the workers’ shoes, mired in thick stickiness, had become unwearable. One even quit on the spot. At the coffee shop, the library, and even the movie theater, it was all Alice heard about for months.

Giving the butter cow another affectionate pat, Alice adjusted the temperature dial on the wall. Soon, the cow, rooster, and piglets would be sweating, beads of liquid forming on their golden backs, comb, and hindquarters. The resulting pools of margarine would take almost as long to clean as the peaches. For a fleeting second she almost felt a hint of remorse for the trouble she was about to cause, but the moment soon passed. Making a mess was her specialty, and besides, she’d never been one to cry over spilled milk—especially when all her spills were intentional. Nadine would be arriving in three hours, along with Mia and Stephen, and their work was cut out for them. 

The year before, the giant clay black bear towering over the revered corridor of cheese curd stands had suddenly lost its bearings and toppled to the pavement, miraculously crushing only two booths as it went. No one had been injured, but the fat brown bodies of curds lay everywhere, releasing hot strands of white and orange cheddar as aghast fairgoers stepped around the wreckage. Such a waste of perfectly good cheese, Alice thought, cringing at the memory. Still, some things just had to be done. The loss had been so catastrophic that she’d almost wished she could receive credit for it, some strange combination of disgust and admiration.

The weavings for the textile contest swung gently in the hot wind in the adjacent rooms, wooden frames clattering against the wall. These were too precious to destroy. She thought of her tour of Ash Cave at Hocking Hills State Park years earlier, where a little girl had gotten lost. Though the cave was a recess cave, a large outcropping of overhanging rock rather than an isolated space underground, the rangers had never been able to find her. The tour participants had made a makeshift memorial near where she’d last been seen, adding assorted trinkets to a hollowed patch of grass surrounded by trout lily and trillium. Alice had left a homemade bracelet, the colorful braided plastic lanyard kind that used to be all the rage in middle school. She figured the girl would like it, if she ever returned. Most humans would be unable to survive in such conditions.

As Alice crossed the room toward the rack of pies, she could hear horses stamping from the next building, pawing the doors of their stalls. Daphne was her favorite, a big and strong Andalusian with a dappled grey and white coat. Sometimes she would eat sugar cubes directly from Alice’s hand. Sighing, Alice lifted the first pie from its holder, a beautiful blueberry concoction with flakes of sea salt scattered across the doughy lattice. The strawberry rhubarb went next, then the lemon meringue. She saved the taco pie for last, smearing the refried beans with gusto over the countertops. The black olives scattered like beads.

Stepping back, Alice admired her handiwork. The kitchen was unrecognizable. There was no need to do anything else. Mia would be astonished. Nadine would be speechless. Stephen would be Stephen, getting straight to work with a mop bucket and the pine floor cleaner that smelled faintly of root beer. As usual, no one would know it was her. A thrill of ambivalence ran through her; the potential consequences were endless, but at least someone would pay her more than a passing glance.

In the now-locked refrigerated room, the butter pig’s curlicue tail collapsed into a puddle. The building was cool and damp, its quiet grey walls closing in around her like a cave, cicadas rushing through like water. Though she wouldn’t, it was tempting to stay where she was, surrounded by trophies of syrup and sugar and onions, waiting for someone to finally find her.