7. Our Lily
Gershit has never milked a goat before. He doesn't want to now. He swore at the old grandmother but she is deaf and palsied; besides, this is her son's job. "My Brogo is a good boy. He never forgets our Lily." They hanged her Brogo yester-noon but he can't make her understand. "It's not like him to be late. He knows my hands aren't what they were."
Our Lily's white-rimmed eye rolls at Gershit around the stanchion corner. It was a business getting her into it and he rubs his bruises ill-temperedly. "Old bitch," he tells the imprisoned goat, "I'll make you smart for those." One long ear flicks and he knows she wants to kick him, but Norgush will have something to say if the milk does not make tally. Gershit takes the mottled teats in his gray hands.
Old Lady Hobbit stands by, stooped and smiling, gnarled hands folded before her. "You are a good friend to my Brogo to come here in his place." She is blind as well as deaf. Her eyes are cloudy with cataracts.
Our Lily fusses in her wooden pillory and Gershit mutters obscenities. Squeeze pull, squeeze pull. Milk hissing into the pan.