It's the first of May when I notice Buttercup's dish is still full at dinnertime. Usually, when Peeta and I are busy cooking around 6pm, he lets us know that he's starving and needs his bowl filled immediately. But tonight, the room is quiet save for the sound of the water running in the sink and a pot bubbling on the stove.

I'm peeling a potato as I let my eyes wander the floor to see if he's anywhere nearby. I can't remember the last time I saw him; it might have been this morning. I was outside all afternoon helping Peeta plant in the garden, and Buttercup hasn't been interested in going out there since Haymitch's goslings wandered into his territory a few days ago.

He named them Honk and Whiskey and figured out that they're a male and a female, which means that he'll have geese to raise for generations to come. He threw a fit when Orion told him that, but he's been working on renovating the shed every day since.

"Have you seen the cat?" I ask Peeta as he adds diced chives to the soup.

"Not for a while," he says, then looks up from his work. "Usually he's in here by now."

"I know," I say, It's stupid to be worried - he's a cat, and he's proven many times over that he's capable of taking care of himself. But it's not like him to pass up food all day. "He hasn't eaten yet."

"Strange," Peeta says, lowering his eyebrows.

"I'll go see if he's on the bed," I say, placing the potato I'd been peeling in the middle of the cutting board so I can come back to it later.

I head upstairs, looking around corners as I go, but I don't find Buttercup in mine and Peeta's room - or anywhere upstairs, for that matter. Not in the bathroom, in his favorite place on the rug by the radiator, or in the linen closet. I go back downstairs and pass through the living room on the way to the kitchen only to see him huddled by the fireplace - though it's not lit.

We haven't lit it all this week because it's getting warmer outside by the day. With the windows open, the house stays nice and temperate. But Buttercup apparently never got that message.

"It's not cold in here," I say, standing over him.

I expect him to look up and meow plaintively, participating in the conversation as he usually does. But he just stares into the motionless fireplace like he's waiting for a flame, all curled into himself. Even though I stand by what I said - it's not cold in the house - he does look chilly. So, I make a fire.

That seems to please him, as he loosens up a bit and licks his paws, getting more comfortable where he lies. Without drawing attention to myself, I grab his food dish from the kitchen and bring it to his side, but he barely even sniffs it.

"Not hungry, huh?" I say, then shake my head. "So ungrateful."

He won't drink, either, and I try to pretend it worries me less than it does. In fact, all throughout dinner I can't stop thinking about it. And once we clean up and head to the couch, our usual post-meal spot, he's still in front of the fire - sound asleep. It's an unusual place for him to lay, as he can almost always be counted on to act as Peeta's shadow. And when Peeta's not available, he makes it his mission to get under my feet and trip me up. I never thought him leaving me alone would bother me as much as it does.

"He didn't eat," I mutter, speaking with my head low as I concentrate on the trivets I'm knitting. I'm finally using the light blue yarn I traded for, getting acclimated to my mother's needles. "Or drink. All day."

"Huh," Peeta says. The sound of pencil on paper stops as he lifts his head to watch the cat. "Not hungry, buddy?" he asks. Buttercup doesn't even bother opening his eyes.

"It's more than that," I say.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," I say. "He's acting odd."

"Not like himself," Peeta adds.

"Right."

"Hmm," he says, doodling absentmindedly while he thinks. "Well, maybe Yael could take a look at him. She raises all sorts of animals. She might know what's going on."

I nod slightly, keeping my eyes cemented on my stitches. "Sure," I say. "That might be good."

…

Peeta would get scratched to ribbons if he tried to take Buttercup anywhere, so there's no choice but to have Yael come to Victors' Village to see Buttercup at our house. The thought terrifies me - someone who's not Haymitch, Sae, or my mother breaching our space - and I can't make myself face her. We've never met; I've heard her name, I've seen her in passing, but I don't know her and I don't care to.

I let Peeta answer the door when she knocks and I disappear up the stairs, waiting at the top where I can clearly hear everything going on below. He greets her, pleasant as always, and leads her into the living room where Buttercup is still perched by the fire. I haven't let it go out for two days now. It seems I'm always keeping a fire for someone.

"It's been a while since he's eaten last," Peeta tells Yael. "Maybe two days."

She asks if he's been drinking water and Peeta tells her yes, but not much. Here and there, and only when the bowl is placed directly under his nose.

"And he hasn't really moved from this spot," he says. "I think he likes the warmth."

"He probably does," Yael says, then comments on how cute Buttercup is. It's nice to know that she can lie.

"Is he sick?" Peeta asks.

There's a notable pause before she speaks next and I already know what her answer will be. The silence says it all. "How old is he?" she says.

At this point, he's over a decade - and like all of us, he hasn't had an easy life.

"I'm not sure," Peeta answers. "Not young."

Yael sighs loud enough for me to hear, then says, "He's a senior cat. He's been through a lot. This might be his way of telling you that he's ready to go."

Ready to go? What the hell does that mean? I frown deeply at her words and want nothing more than for her to get out of our house.

"Oh," Peeta says.

"At this point, just make sure he's comfortable," she continues. "You were right to keep him warm and offer food and water. Really, there's nothing more you can do."

"Okay." His tone is low and somber, but accepting.

I don't know how he can just take her words at face value. What does she know? She doesn't know a thing about this foul cat, who has stayed alive until this point out of pure spite. Why now? Why not when I attempted to drown him when he was a flea-ridden kitten? Why not during the time he spent here alone and cold and waiting for someone to show up?

Of course he has to do it when we're all here and he can get attention for it. I would be angrier about that if I were convinced he's dying, which I'm not.

Once Yael leaves, I stomp down the stairs to find Peeta sitting with Buttercup in front of the fire, stroking his head. He turns to look when he hears my feet, then gives me a sad smile. "You heard?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, sitting on the other side of the cat. It's almost too warm sitting here with the pleasant breeze coming in from the window. "She's wrong."

"Katniss, he-"

"He's not dying!" I snap. "She doesn't know anything. She shouldn't have come."

Peeta takes a deep breath and studies my face, probably wondering what to say or whether to respond at all. His eyes move back and forth between mine before he eventually drops his gaze to my lap, which Buttercup has crawled into. This is something he often does with Peeta, not me.

I shove him off, wanting him to act normal. "Leave me alone, you stupid cat," I say.

A little stunned but otherwise undeterred, Buttercup comes right back. I tense up, deciding if I should allow it, but can't bear to push him away a second time. He's trying to seem normal, too, croaking out his raspy purr while kneading my thigh.

"I taught him that," Peeta says, trying to joke.

I swallow hard to force away the lump in my throat. It won't go, though, so I have to speak around it. "He's not dying," I say again, this time much quieter.

Peeta pulls me in and I rest my head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around me, kisses the top of my head and says, "You're right. I know." The last part comes out softer - he whispers the words when he says, "I'm sorry."

…

A couple days later, I can't sleep.

I swipe my feet under the covers, almost hoping to get pounced on even though I know it won't happen. I prop myself up on an elbow to have my suspicions confirmed - the end of the bed is cat-free, which means Buttercup is downstairs in the spot he refuses to vacate.

I run a hand down Peeta's back then pull the covers over him as high as they'll go. He's breathing slowly and deeply, sound asleep, and doesn't stir when I slip out of bed.

When I get downstairs, I see a small lump encased by the shadows of the fire. Buttercup's new favorite position is to curl his tail around his form so it covers his nose. Prim always used to say that he was extra cold when he did that, so when she witnessed it, she would wrap him up in an old baby blanket that was torn and tattered. The blanket is long gone, but after I finished the trivets, I started working on a white throw with the thick yarn that Peeta brought home. It's not even close to finished, but it's just the right size for a cat.

More carefully than I've ever handled him before, I wrap Buttercup in the blanket and he allows it, which makes my stomach sink. If I tried something like this even two weeks ago, he would've fought me and left scratches all down my arms. But now, he cooperates and lets me maneuver him so he's completely covered.

I bring him to the kitchen and set him on a chair while I pull out the chicken that's leftover from dinner the night before. It's already shredded, but I pull it apart a bit more and bring a handful to the table. I sit down with the swaddled cat in my lap and cup my hand under his chin, getting him to smell the treat that I have. He sniffs it, but that's all. He doesn't make a move to scarf it down; he doesn't even purr.

"Eat," I say sternly, separating a small piece from the rest. I pry open his jaws and manage to get it in, then force him to chew. "Look. There. See? Eat."

He swallows, but when I try a second time, he clamps his mouth shut and refuses to budge.

"Stubborn thing," I mutter, and throw the rest of the scraps away. "Fine. Go hungry, then."

I feel bad for saying what I said as soon as the words leave my mouth. To show him that I don't mean it, I scoop him up and take him out of the kitchen to sit by the fire again, but this time on the couch so we can both be comfortable.

I lie on my back and place him on my chest, and I have to admit that the weight of him is pleasant. He's not heavy like he was during the winter, but he still feels substantial. And he's pleased - even proud, I think - because he probably never thought I'd let him lay on me like this.

"Don't look at me like that," I say, blinking into his orange eyes. As I look at them, I wonder how many times my sister had this exact view. And as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I force it out with everything I've got.

I close my eyes with the intent of resting for only a few minutes, but the next thing I know, Peeta is waking me with a kiss to the forehead. "Hi," he says. His face is still soft and a little puffy, which tells me he just woke up.

"I fell asleep," I say groggily, rubbing my eyes with my fists. Buttercup is now tucked by my stomach, still snug in the blanket. In my sleep, I must have turned on my side and started spooning him like I do Peeta at night.

"He took my spot," Peeta says, gesturing towards the drowsy cat with a smile in his eyes. It amuses me that we thought of the same thing.

"Like I said, he snores less," I say, then sit up. Buttercup barely budges, uncaring that I've taken away his heat source - thanks to the blanket, probably. I reach for Peeta and he sits down to give me a hug, and I hug him back as hard as I can with my face buried in his neck. Neither of us speak while we're in each other's embrace. I missed him last night. I don't like sleeping without him, and I know he doesn't like sleeping without me either. I should've brought the cat upstairs.

I pull away and he kisses me, brushing short, flyaway hairs out of my eyes before cupping my cheek. "Are you hungry?" he asks.

I nod and lean into his touch, placing the full weight of my head in his hand. He gives me a small smile and kisses me again, then addresses the cat.

"How about you, B? You hungry?"

"He ate a piece of chicken last night," I say, leaning against Peeta's outer arm.

"Really?"

"I shoved it down his throat," I say. "It wasn't exactly voluntary."

"Oh," Peeta says. "Well, I'll bring him something. Wait here." He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a small bowl, and when he sits down I see that it's yogurt. "I think he'll like this," he says. "But you first. Open up, little bird."

I do as he says and eat a few spoonfuls of yogurt before insisting that I'm full. Even though Peeta doesn't believe me - he knows how many biscuits I can put away - he moves on to try and feed the cat. But just as I expected, Buttercup has no interest. He turns away from the spoon and won't even lick the remnants off his chin. Peeta has to wipe them with his sleeve like he would for a messy baby.

"We'll try again later," he tells me, stroking Buttercup's neck. Because he's on my lap, I feel the rumble in my legs first; this cat has the audacity to purr after turning away Peeta's gift of yogurt. "Don't worry."

I'm not sure if he's telling me or Buttercup not to worry, but it doesn't matter really. He's a comfort to us both.

…

The next morning when I wake up, Peeta is spooning me instead of the other way around. In my state of half-sleep, it feels nice - safe and warm - so I scoot back against him to get as close as I can. He must be on the verge of waking, too, because he wraps his arms all the way around me and pulls me in tight.

I run my hands over his wrists and he kisses the side of my neck, letting his lips linger for a while in the sweet spot between my ear and corner of my jaw. It feels so good and I'm so comfortable that I'm in danger of falling back to sleep, but I shouldn't. The weather is nice and it's a perfect morning for hunting - I can't waste it in bed.

"Time to get up," I say to Peeta, running the instep of my foot along his calf.

"Mmm…" he groans, his mouth still on my neck. "Five more minutes."

"For you, maybe," I say, unwinding myself from his grip and successfully climbing out of bed. I stretch my arms above my head and feel his eyes on me, but I don't turn around. The look on his face might pull me back in, and the day is calling.

I pull on a thin sweater and make my way downstairs, stopping in the living room to check on Buttercup - but the empty spot on the hearth makes me stop in my tracks. I check the couch, the windowsill, and by his food dish, but the cat is nowhere to be found.

"Buttercup?" I call. I search the entire first floor of the house, even going so far as to open cabinets, but turn up no results. Confused, I go back upstairs and pop my head into mine and Peeta's room where Peeta is now dozing with his hands behind his head - alone. No cat.

I check the bathroom, the linen closet, the guest room - nothing. The last room I walk into is the one that never gets used. In my house, it had been Prim's. Here, Peeta has never had use for it.

I get the idea to check under the bed almost like I'm being drawn there. As I lower onto my hands and knees, my heart speeds up and I can hear my breath coming in short gusts through my nose. I know what I'm going to see before I see it, but I have to look. I have to know.

I drop all the way down to my stomach and peer under the bed, then see the furry shape I knew that I would. "Buttercup," I say quietly. I don't get a response. Not even a twitch of hsi half-ear or a raspy meow. He doesn't move.

I steel myself and reach under the bed. When I pull him out and get a grip with both hands, I realize that he's cold and stiff. I don't know why, but it takes a moment for me to realize that he's dead. It doesn't sink in right away. It's like it's not real, not actually happening.

But the fact that his body is no longer pliable and there's no heartbeat, no breath, no nothing tells me all I need to know.

Upon realizing it, I drop his body. I don't mean to, but it happens, and he falls to the floor with a soft thump. With my fingers spread wide and my arms tense, too spooked to get close again, I call out Peeta's name.

He doesn't answer, so I say it again - louder this time. "Peeta!" I hear fumbling from our bedroom and seconds later, he passes the doorway to the room I'm in. "In here," I say, and he backtracks to look inside.

Once he sees me kneeling on the ground with the fluffy orange body crumpled in front of me, he knows. "Oh," he says, his expression falling. "Oh, no."

"He was under the bed," I say. It's all I can manage to say.

Peeta lowers himself next to me, running a wide palm over Buttercup's body. He pets him gently and lovingly, just the way he did when the cat was alive. "Oh, buddy," he says softly.

"He's dead," I state, biting my lower lip as hard as I can.

"Yeah," Peeta sighs, still stroking the cat. He gives him a small scratch behind the ears and looks at his orange face for a long time. "You were a good friend," he says. "To me, to Katniss, and most of all, to Primrose."

When he says her name, I scramble up from the floor and leave the room. I keep my head ducked and make a beeline for the bathroom, then lock myself inside and turn the shower on. I don't want him to hear me cry.

…

Peeta asks if I want to help bury Buttercup, but I turn him down with a quick shake of the head. I don't want to see him going into the ground.

I sit in the open doorway and watch, though. Peeta digs as gray clouds roll in and blanket the sky, and he's just lowering Buttercup's body into the hole when it starts to rain. He looks upwards like he might find the very source of the water, then turns back to his task. His jaw is set, eyebrows low - he's concentrated and determined to get this done and do it right.

I can still hear Prim's name echoing through my head in the exact tone Peeta said it. Primrose. He's burying Buttercup right by her flowers. The first ones have shown their faces, but the rest haven't yet joined. He tells me that they will soon, to keep watching.

The rain reminds me of when Prim and I were young - she was four or five, which would put me at eight or nine. Whenever it would rain in the spring like this, she would bolt outside and beg me to join her. Back then, I would say yes - if only to make her happy. Now, no matter how badly I want to join her again, I can't.

…

I sleep for two days. For two straight days, I stay in bed and toe the line between conscious and not. Simultaneously, I'm wired and more exhausted than I've ever been. The combination makes it impossible to do anything else but lie here.

On the morning of the second day, I listen to Peeta wake up as I stare at the ceiling. He comes to the surface slowly and quietly; I notice the change in his breathing pattern first. I know he's close to opening his eyes when he turns onto his side and seeks me out, reaching low to intertwine our fingers instead of throwing a heavy arm across my waist.

I like that better right now anyway. It's like he knows. Maybe he does. I consistently underestimate how good he is at understanding my feelings.

When he speaks, his voice is low and gravelly. "Happy birthday," he says, and I frown.

"No," I say, adamant that he must be wrong.

"It's May 8th," he says, those blue eyes looking into mine.

I count backwards and realize that he's right. It's my birthday, and I feel nothing.

When my father was still alive and we were young, birthdays were a sweet occasion. They'd warrant treats - probably made by Peeta's father or even Peeta, now that I think about it - and singing. But as we got older, each passing birthday was one year closer to death. At least, that's how I looked at it. Prim always enjoyed them, and I let her. She liked my birthday more than I did, and Peeta seems to have adopted the tradition.

"I got you something," he says, then reaches over the side of the bed. Knowing Peeta, he put it there last night with this plan in place. When he rolls back over, he hands me a small box with a bashful look on his face.

"I don't need anything," I tell him.

"Please," he says.

With lead in my chest, I sit up and pull the brown paper off of the box. I lift the lid to find a tiny wooden figurine that's shaped to look like a cat, and it's painted orange and mottled with dingy brown. It has a mashed-in nose, half an ear, it's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. It's Buttercup.

I place it back in the box but I don't put the lid on. I stare down at it and I can't think of a thing to say.

"A while ago, you talked about whittling," he says. "I had Haymitch teach me how, so I could make that. And if you still want to learn, I could show-"

I set the box on the nightstand and look away from it, which makes him stop talking. This is the second depiction that Peeta has created of Buttercup; the first was a watercolor painting I watched him create while sitting in bed next to me. I assume, now that it's finished, it's on the mantel with the rest of our photos - but I haven't been downstairs to look.

I should thank him. I know that I should. But I just can't.

…

Later in the day, Peeta gets me out of bed but I don't go far. I make it to the couch before I lose the little energy I have, and even the smell of cookies in the oven doesn't bring me anywhere close to cheeriness. He's compensating - not by speaking too brightly or shoving the day in my face - but by being too gentle, too kind. I don't deserve it.

I'm in the odd state of half-sleep that's grown so familiar when the front door creaks open. I hear Haymitch's voice soon after, and I'm not surprised. There's only one person who comes inside without knocking, and that's him.

His footsteps get close and he peers over the couch. I stay completely still, pretending to be fully asleep, and he leaves me alone to go bother Peeta in the kitchen. Even though they're a room away, I can hear everything that they're saying.

"She looks like shit," Haymitch says.

"She's having a hard time."

"I'd say so. You gonna get her out of it?"

"I'm trying," Peeta says quietly. The oven dings and I hear the familiar sounds of the door opening and a rack being removed. "Wait. They're hot," he says, after I assume Haymitch probably tried to snatch one off the tray.

"God damn!" Haymitch curses. "You could've warned me."

"I did."

There's a pause where neither of them speak and I can only guess Haymitch is shoving a too-hot cookie in his mouth. He's not very good at waiting. I'm proven right because when he speaks next, his mouth is full. "She sad about the cat?"

"He meant a lot to her."

"The thing was old as hell. It's only natural."

"I know. And she understands that, too. But he belonged to…"

"Right."

Then, their voices grow hushed. They talk in low tones, too quiet for me to hear even when I strain. The next sound that comes is that of Peeta putting his shoes on, then his footsteps on the floor as he comes to check on me in the same way Haymitch did. But unlike Haymitch, he drops a kiss to the side of my head and whispers, even though he thinks I'm asleep, that he'll be back soon.

I don't like it when he leaves but I'm not ready to give up my ruse of being unconscious, so I let him go without a fight. When the front door closes, I hear more footsteps, and this time they belong to Haymitch as he comes to join me on the couch. He plops down by my feet and as soon as he does, I hear little peeping sounds that make me open my eyes.

"Faker," Haymitch grumbles.

I see that the peeping is coming from his goslings, which never leave his side. He claims, if they're left alone, that they get anxious because they can't fend for themselves yet. While that might be true, I think he just likes having them around.

Honk hops onto my legs and Whiskey climbs higher, burrowing into my neck to curl into a ball in the hollow between my ear and shoulder. While she's busy getting comfortable, Honk bites at my sweater and I don't care enough to stop him.

"The boy is trying to help, you know," Haymitch says, never breaking eye contact.

I don't have anything to say in response, so I blink and look away. I'm not up for a lecture, or a therapy session, or a heart-to-heart. I just want to be left alone.

Maybe Haymitch senses that, because he doesn't push the subject further. As we sit together, he doesn't speak again unless he's telling Honk to stop pulling on my loose threads.

Peeta comes back about an hour later, bringing a burst of energy with him. "Hey," he says, breathless. I can hear the smile in his voice. He comes and kneels by the couch so our faces are inches apart, and his whole demeanor is lit up. "Will you come outside?"

I chew the inside of my lip and try to communicate without words that no, I would rather do anything else than go outside, but he either ignores it or doesn't pick up on it.

"Please," he says. "Just for a minute. I have something to show you."

"Come on," Haymitch urges me, picking Honk up off my legs where he'd been napping. "If I gotta go, you gotta go."

My bones creak as I rise to a sitting position, and I hand Whiskey to Haymitch so he can put the goslings in his pockets, where they typically ride when he walks around. Peeta, bustling around at top speed, takes my hand and leads me out to the porch.

"Close your eyes," he says, so I do. I hear him descend the steps then come back up. "Okay, open!"

I open my eyes to see Peeta standing in front of me holding two baby goats - one under each arm. He's beaming, practically glowing, but all I can do is stare at the pink ribbon he tied around both of their necks.

"Happy birthday," he says, still smiling.

My mind is blank. I have no words, even though he's expectant - waiting for me to say something, anything. But I'm empty.

"Haymitch's geese made me think of it," Peeta says, filling the silence. "They inspired me, I guess. And I remembered the story you once told me - in the cave? About Prim's goat and the pink ribbon."

His eyes search mine for a place to land, but I can't give it to him. Seeing those two small goats in his arms brings back everything - the way I carted Lady home with Gale, how Prim nursed her back to health, the silky pink ribbon that adorned her scroungy neck for days. How Prim loved her and cared for her, how she kept us alive at times. Everything.

"Wait," Peeta says, his eyes flicking across my face. "Was that not… was that not real?"

"No," I say. "It was."

"Oh," he says, nodding. "Okay. Good."

For a long moment, the three of us just stand on the porch without saying anything. The only sounds come from Honk and Whiskey, who are chirping inside Haymitch's pockets.

"They need names," Peeta says, still hopeful.

All I can do is shake my head. Then, I lower my eyes to the ground and walk back inside with my head low.

…

That night, I'm in bed long before Peeta. I'm thinking about nothing and everything all at once and wishing I could fall asleep, but it won't come. No matter how long I lie there with my eyes closed, I can't shut my mind off.

When Peeta finally comes to bed, he takes off his leg and slips under the covers quietly. He knows I'm not asleep, though, because he whispers to me through the darkness. "It's still too cold for them to be outside at night," he says. "Their pen isn't ready yet. I got them situated downstairs."

I can't read the tone of his voice, but there's not much time to analyze it because he drifts off almost immediately. I glance over, irritated, and wonder how he can find peace so easily. The inside of his mind is just as ravaged as mine, yet he's so much sunnier. It doesn't seem fair.

I try to get comfortable so I can join him in sleep, but still nothing works. I should've expected as much. And it doesn't help that I can hear faint bleating coming from downstairs - high-pitched and frightened, from what I can tell. I'll never fall back to sleep hearing that, so with a huff, I get out of bed and pad down in my pajamas.

When I walk into the living room, I see that Peeta made a fire for the goats and set them up a good distance away from it in some sort of homemade cage. When they catch sight of me, they both perk up and start bleating louder, probably relieved that someone came to save them from their loneliness.

"People are trying to sleep," I grumble, standing stiffly in the middle of the room.

They keep their eyes on me as best they can in the low light, and from here I can see that they're shivering. Peeta, probably worried about their safety, placed them too far away from the fireplace.

I don't want to touch them. I don't even want to get close to them. But I can't leave them to freeze all night.

So, with a sigh, I pull open the homemade fence and collect the goats in my arms. Not lovingly or tenderly, just getting done what needs to be done. They should be warm. It's only right. I bring them close to the fire - not too close, but close enough - then stand and wait for them to lie down and get comfortable so I can go back upstairs. But all they do is stare at me.

"Lay," I say, frowning while pointing to the floor. They don't budge.

I curse under my breath as I lower to join them on the floor. As soon as I do, they huddle near me, sapping as much body heat as they can, and fold their knobby legs underneath them. I have no choice but to give in - it's not like they'll let me up - so I rest on my side and try to push away the soft feeling of comfort I get when they lean their weight against me.

I don't mean to fall asleep, but the fire is warm and it's hard to resist. I'm not quite sure, but before I finally doze off, I think I feel one of the baby goats lick my cheek.