Laundry With a Timer

Creative Mother Goat stood in the master bedroom doorway, cape clipped straight, mask snug.

“Okay, Bolt-Brush,” she said, tapping her phone. “No cape chaos.”

The new laundry bot rolled out, white and boxy on rubber wheels. Its blue screen flashed: CAPE CARE MODE. A tiny arm snapped a basket lid shut like it meant business.

In the hall, her seven kid goats crowded in, all black-and-blue suits and purple capes, all talking at once.

“Training first!” a boy goat said.

“Capes first!” a girl goat shot back. “Mine smells like the smoothie incident.”

Bolt-Brush beeped and vacuumed up capes with brisk slurps, sorting them into seven labeled slots.

A cold gust popped from under a bedroom door, ruffling every cape on the rack.

Creative Mother Goat frowned. “Simulation room. Now.”

Bolt-Brush’s screen blinked: FINISH BY 12:00.

Behind her, the bot’s grabber hesitated over two capes that looked exactly the same

The Wrong Weight

Creative Mother Goat pushed the simulation room door open.

“Shoes off, capes on, mouths—”

A cold gust puffed out and slapped her mask.

Her phone buzzed. Bolt-Brush flashed a photo: seven purple capes clipped to the wrong name tags.

Under it: CAPE CARE MODE COMPLETE. 11:12 AM.

“Uh… Mom?” one boy goat said.

The floor lit up like a video game. A cheerful voice said, “CITY DRILL: METROPOLIS PLAZA.”

“No,” Creative Mother Goat said. “Not outside.”

A launch tube whooshed. Everyone yelped as the room spat them out into a bright plaza full of puddles.

A human shoemaker with short black hair was setting shoes on a sidewalk table.

One girl goat squeaked, suddenly tiny. Her phone plopped into a puddle.

A boy goat sneezed and blasted a burst of snow. It iced the shoemaker’s table.

Creative Mother Goat clapped once. “Cape reset—”

Her purple cape snapped tight.

Every metal shoe tool on the table jerked toward her like it had a crush