The Bull, The Hat, and Me

The cable guy was still wrestling with the wires behind our TV when I heard the commotion outside. Living in the suburbs, you don't exactly expect to see a full-grown bull charging down Maple Street at 3 PM on a Tuesday.

"Did you see that?!" My little sister Maya came flying into the living room, nearly knocking over the cable guy's ladder. "There's literally a bull outside! A REAL one!"

The cable guy, whose nametag read DAVE in peeling letters, didn't even look up. "Happens more than you'd think. Cows escape, kids chase them, chaos ensues."

I grabbed my lucky backwards baseball cap from the couch – the one with the frayed brim that I'd worn through every embarrassing moment of eighth grade – and headed for the door. Outside, half the neighborhood had already gathered. Someone was live-streaming. Three different dads were on their phones with animal control.

And there he was: a massive, confused-looking bull standing next to the Jenkins' crushed hydrangeas, looking remarkably chill for someone who'd just caused suburban pandemonium.

That's when I saw Jake from my AP Bio class standing on the sidewalk, wearing this ridiculous cowboy hat that had definitely seen better days. We'd barely spoken all year, ever since he'd moved here from somewhere in Texas and kept to himself.

"Hey," he said, giving me this small nod like this was the most normal situation ever. "You any good with animals?"

"I once had a goldfish for three days before it mysteriously disappeared?" I offered.

Jake's mouth quirked up. "Perfect. You're hired."

"For WHAT exactly?"

"Help me get this guy back to the farm before someone calls the cops and makes this weird."