The summer I turned nine, we stayed in a stone house in the Luberon. It was old and dry. The walls flaked chalk when you touched them. The air smelled of lavender and dust and rosemary. Cicadas droned all day and into the night. I walked a path every morning, a hard dirt lane past the vineyards. I carried a piece of bread in my pocket. I liked the way it felt there.

There was a goat behind a rusted gate. Her fur was gray and coarse. Her eyes were yellow. The farmer said her name was Miette. He drank wine early and told me the goat had bitten the mailman. He said she was no good. I fed her anyway. She took the bread slow, her tongue rough like an old rag. Then she butted my leg once, lightly, and walked away.

I went back every day. I read to her from a book of stories. She listened or didn’t. When I said château, she looked at me. I thought maybe she remembered something.

Then one morning she was gone. The gate was open. The farmer said, “She wandered off.” He didn’t look up from his drink. I walked the hills until my legs shook. I called her name. Nothing answered but the wind and the insects.

I never found her.

Even now, when I smell crushed thyme, I remember her. Sometimes I hear a goat far off and think of her. The feel of her horn on my leg. Her warm breath on my fingers.

She was only a goat. But I was alone. And she was there.