Her brother flipped the Christmas dinner across the room because she wouldn't let him borrow her truck for his "alpaca business," right before she called her accountant to cancel her family's entire financial safety net.

"Let me get this straight," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "My brother rented forty-two alpacas, loaded them into a trailer, drove sixty miles into the sticks, and now he's stranded because his card declined?"

Jaxson adjusted his blinking Bluetooth earpiece. "Well, technically, it's forty-three alpacas. One of them gave birth in transit. Highly bullish indicator for the fleece market, if you ask me."

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Station 4 was quiet around us; Lieutenant Miller was leaning against the watch desk, watching the exchange with undisguised amusement, pretending to clean his glasses while eavesdropping like an old woman on a porch.

"Why are you here, Jaxson?" I asked.

"Well, Trevor tried calling you, but your number sent him straight to voicemail. Then he called your dad, but the power's out at your folks' place and Dad was screaming about communism. So Trevor remembered I had your address from our pitch deck, and he sent me here as an envoy."

"An envoy."

"An envoy of urgency. Oscar, those animals are precious. They're basically walking fleece-atm machines. But right now, they're sitting in a horse trailer with a flat tire on Route 9 blazing under zero climate control, and Trevor is currently hyperventilating into a Dunkin' Donuts bag."

I looked at my watch. My shift ended in four hours. But more importantly, I looked at the absurdity of the situation. Forty-three alpacas. A newborn cria born in a livestock trailer somewhere near the county line. My brother having a panic attack into a pastry bag.

"I'm off duty in four hours," I said.

Jaxson's face fell. "Four hours? Oscar, by four hours, those alpacas will have unionized! We need transport! We need capital! We need the Ford F-250!"

"You're not getting my truck."

"Then how are we rescuing the fleece?"

"You're not," I said flatly. "Call a tow truck. Use a credit card."

"The cards are maxed out, Oscar! That's why we needed your truck and your backing! Trevor said you were reliable!"

"Trevor is delusional."

I turned my back on Jaxson and walked back toward the locker room. But as I walked away, Jaxson shouted the one sentence guaranteed to make my job harder:

"If those alpacas freeze, your brother is going to lose his mind and set fire to your parents' detached garage!"

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Knowing Trevor, that wasn't even hyperbole. Trevor's relationship with pyrotechnics during moments of stress was legendary. Last year, when his crypto portfolio crashed, he tried to burn an old laptop in a plastic Weber grill and nearly melted the neighbor's vinyl siding.

I turned around, walked straight up to Jaxson, and pointed a finger at his chest. "Listen to me, corporate consultant. You are going to get in your Prius right now, drive back to Route 9, and tell my brother two things."

"What things?" Jaxson squeaked, blinking rapidly.

"One: Oscar is not coming to save you with his truck. Two: If he burns down my parents' garage, I will personally let the fire department practice roof ventilation on it."

Jaxson swallowed hard, nodded frantically, and bolted out the station doors like he had just encountered an actual grizzly bear.

Lieutenant Miller walked over, sipping his coffee. "Family looks like they're handling the budget cuts well."

"They're stress-testing my sanity," I muttered.

"Well, Bennett, if it makes you feel any better, my brother once lost our grandmother's inheritance in an online emu farm scam."

"Emus?"

"Yeah. Turns out emus don't thrive in suburban New Jersey. Who knew?"

By 6:00 PM, my shift ended. I changed into civilian clothes—jeans, a heavy flannel shirt, and work boots—and got into my F-250. Instead of heading straight home, I took the long way around Route 9, just to confirm whether Jaxson and Trevor were actually stranded or if it was another elaborate guilt-trip performance.

Twenty miles outside town, parked awkwardly on the shoulder of the highway, was a rusted livestock trailer with hazard lights flashing weakly. Next to it stood Trevor's dented Honda, and beside that, Jaxson's Prius.

Trevor was pacing back and forth in his Christmas sweater, waving his arms at the passing semi-trucks while a miniature alpaca poked its fluffy white head out of a side vent, looking entirely unbothered by the apocalypse unfolding around it.

I pulled my truck over onto the shoulder, flicked on my amber flashers, and left the engine running.

Trevor saw the dark-blue Ford and practically sprinted across the asphalt, his face flushed red with cold and fury. He yanked open my passenger door and climbed in without permission, bringing a cloud of freezing air and raw desperation into the cab.

"I knew you'd come!" Trevor gasped, panting. "I knew you couldn't abandon us!"

"I'm not here to rescue you, Trevor," I said calmly, keeping my hands on the steering wheel. "I'm here to make sure you don't cause a multi-vehicle pileup on a federal highway."

"The tire is blown!" Trevor yelled, pointing wildly at the trailer. "And the trailer rental place says our account is flagged! They want cash! Cash, Oscar! Who carries cash in the digital age?!"

"Adults who pay their bills," I replied.

"Stop lecturing me! There are forty-two alpacas out there! And one baby! We named her Snowflake!"

"Fascinating."

"Oscar, please. Just tow the trailer to the farm. You don't even have to talk to me. Just hook it up."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. Thirty-one years old. No job, no savings, no grip on reality, living off our parents' declining equity and my perpetual financial life support. The gravy on the wall back on Maple Street felt like a metaphor for his entire life: messy, chaotic, and completely someone else's problem to clean up.

"No," I said quietly.

Trevor froze. The frantic energy drained out of him, replaced by a cold, ugly shock. "What do you mean, no? They're living creatures."

"Then call animal control. Call a livestock transporter. Call a tow company and pay them."

"We have no money!"

"Then figure it out. Like an entrepreneur."

Trevor's jaw worked silently. He looked at me with eyes full of betrayal—the universal gaze of the perpetual parasite cut off from its host.

"You're heartless," he whispered. "You're a firefighter. You're supposed to help people."

"I help people whose houses catch fire through no fault of their own," I said, putting the F-250 into gear. "I don't fund livestock schemes for thirty-one-year-old toddlers."

I pulled away, leaving Trevor standing on the highway shoulder under the flickering hazard lights, with forty-two alpacas, one newborn baby named Snowflake, and a corporate consultant named Jaxson.

I thought that would be the end of it.