The Goat

The winter market was in an old brick warehouse on the south side, and on Saturday mornings in January it was the warmest place in Edmonton.

There were long rows of tables under strings of yellow lights. Honey, bread, sausages, mittens, soap shaped like cupcakes. A man playing the accordion very badly near the entrance. The smell of coffee and cinnamon and wet boots. Half of Riverbend seemed to be there, walking slowly between the tables with cloth bags and children and dogs.

Grace and Lina stood near the door with two clipboards, a pile of petition forms, and a sign that Grace had made: SAVE A ROOM FOR RIVERBEND. SIGN HERE (ward residents only). 2 minutes.

The job was straightforward: smile, explain in one sentence, hand over the pen. By ten thirty they had sixty-one signatures. It was going better than Grace had hoped. People recognized the posters. Some of them had read Dolores's letter in the newspaper. An old man signed, then asked Grace if she was "the petition girl from the Blue Plate," and Grace said yes, although she had been to the Blue Plate exactly twice.

"See?" said Lina. "A piece of cake."

"Don't say that," said Grace. "When people say that, something always goes wrong."