The Quietest Room

Creative Mother Goat stood in the master bedroom doorway, one hoof on the smooth metal floor.

Her phone buzzed. The school calendar flashed: TALENT NIGHT REHEARSAL—TONIGHT.

“Tonight?” she said. Her purple cape swished as she strode into the hall with seven matching doors.

From the training simulation room came music and the soft thump of foam props.

Pippin darted out, light gray fur bristling under his purple mask.

“Practice is fine,” he said.

“Fine usually sounds quieter,” Creative Mother Goat said.

Pippin crossed his arms. “I’m doing a normal act. No coaching.”

Inside, the simulator projected a stage with bright spotlights. A stack of foam stars sat by a bench.

Pippin stepped backward.

WHOOMP.

A burst of air blew the ceiling vent open. Foam stars shot everywhere, bouncing off the walls like popcorn.

Pippin lunged, kicking stars under the bench.

Creative Mother Goat narrowed her warm brown eyes and reached for the simulator control panel

The Vent That Wouldn’t Behave

Creative Mother Goat slapped the simulator panel. The stage lights died, but the ceiling vent still rattled like a drum.

Pippin, the light gray kid goat in his tiny purple cape, pressed his lips tight.

“Shoes. Now,” she said. “We need somewhere with noise and fans.”

Minutes later, her cape whipped behind her as she hurried him through Metropolis drizzle to a bright laundromat. Rows of silver washers spun like little rockets.

A woman with short black hair looked up from a tablet. “I’m Ms. Rina. If you’re here for quiet, wrong place.”

“Perfect,” Creative Mother Goat said.

Ms. Rina nodded toward the window. “Also, a school talent-night livestream truck is parked outside. Their mic picks up everything.”

Pippin squeaked. “I’m not doing anything.” He stuffed his cape under his collar like it was misbehaving.

Creative Mother Goat loaded towels fast. “Just breathe like you’re sipping soup.”

Pippin inhaled.

WHOOMP.

A washer door flew open. Sudsy water splashed across the floor, sliding toward the front glass