Four Towers and a Tuesday

Canvas Mesa City never slept all the way.

Even at noon, when the desert sun turned the streets the color of burnt butter, the city hummed — hooves on cobblestone, the distant clang of a tram, somebody's radio playing too loud from a third-floor window.

Right in the middle of it all stood Crayon Cow Saloon, four towers striped like the world's biggest crayons — red, yellow, green, and a blue one that matched Crayon Cow's suit almost exactly. People always pointed at that blue tower when they passed.

Inside, Crayon Cow — real name Bessie Blue to exactly three people who'd known her long enough — was wiping down the long front counter.

"You missed a spot," said a small voice near the door.

It was Nettie, a goat from next door, clutching her handbag like it might try to escape.

Bessie looked up. Nettie's yellow eyes were doing something unusual.

They were nervous.

What the Floor Knows

Nettie stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind her.

"I recorded it," she said, pulling out a small silver phone and holding the screen toward Bessie.

The audio clip was eleven seconds long. Nettie hit play.

It started quiet — just hiss and static — and then came a low, rhythmic sound. Not knocking. Not a pipe. Something almost like a voice, deep and slow, rising and falling like a lullaby sung by someone who'd forgotten most of the words.

Bessie stared at the phone. "Where did you record that?"

"My floor." Nettie's pale cream ears flattened against her dark brown hair. "My kitchen floor. Last night at two in the morning. Three nights in a row."

Bessie looked down at the saloon's own floor — wide wooden boards, old and dark. She'd owned this building for six years and never once thought about what was under it.

"The sound is coming from below the saloon," Nettie said. "Not below my place. Below yours."

Then the phone in Nettie's hoof buzzed with a new notification — and the name on the screen made both of them go very still.