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He came over to pick her up, and A Thousand Pounds of Anarchy left our lives forever.
    Now we just had the young chickens to care for, in addition to a few dogs and cats. It seemed time to expand our menagerie. If that comes as a surprise, considering it was April and we’d already banished or murdered the majority of the animals we’d had charge of, then I must tell you one thing: Peter hates computers. He knows it’s the best way he can earn a living, and he feels fortunate to be able to support his family, but basically he hates working at a desk all day. He’s always casting about for business ideas, preferably ones that involve his working outside.
    â€œI’m thinking alpacas,” he announced one day, tapping away at his tablet. It was Sunday morning and we were sipping our coffee in peace. Phoenix, the shaggy old dog, sighed contentedly on the floor. Silas and Miranda were still snoring soundly in the other room.
    â€œAlpacas?” I asked. “Isn’t that like a llama?”
    Rolling his eyes at my ignorance, Peter showed me his tablet. “Alpacas are a
type
of llama, but not all llamas are alpacas. See?”
    The Google page he had up displayed a procession of alpacas, each one cuter than the last. If a teddy bear made it with a camel,that’s what their babies would look like. Alpacas are long-necked, soft, and fluffy, with enormous dark eyes and the most insanely long eyelashes I’ve ever seen. They come in many colors, too: white, black, and spotted, and a color called rose-gray, which I swear to God looks like purple. That’s right: purple teddy bear camels. That’s how cute these things are.
    â€œHow much?” I asked, breathless with desire.
    â€œTwenty thousand dollars,” Peter said. “For a good one.”
    I swallowed abruptly, and hot coffee flew up my nose. “Twenty—
what
?!
For a
camel
?
We’re saving that money for a
house
!”
    â€œNot camels.
Camelids
,”
Peter corrected me. “And I’m thinking it’s a good investment. We could produce fine fiber, even sell it later on. Then, when we get a second one, we can breed them and sell crias.”
    â€œSo
forty
thousand dollars,” I repeated dumbly. I reflected on this use for our life’s savings. “And sell crack?”
    â€œNo,
crias
,”
Peter repeated. “Baby alpacas. They’re very cute.” He typed into his tablet and showed me more pictures, this time of
miniature
purple teddy bear camels.
    â€œJesus,” I commented. “That’s fucked-up.”
    â€œI know, right?” Peter finished his coffee, a big grin on his face. “It’s a fantastic business idea.”
    Later that day, I ran this fantastic business idea past Autumn, who is an actual New Zealander who grew up on a farm. Unlike either of us, she also had some experience working with fibers. I sat at her long wooden dining table while she bustled about the kitchen making coffee. She did this with surprising dexterity, since she was balancing her three-year-old son, Titou, on one hip while juggling sugar and hot water.
    I noticed that Autumn didn’t proffer her opinion lightly. Instead,she collected the data. And she did this by peppering me with questions.
    â€œSo, what’s the product you’re trying to sell? Would it be fleece or—”
    â€œPashminas,” I said. I don’t know why I said pashminas. I think I just wanted one.
    â€œSo, very large scarves. And you’d sell these for—”
    â€œFive hundred dollars.”
    Autumn sucked her teeth. “You wouldn’t get much of a market for five-hundred-dollar scarves here in New Zealand.”
    â€œNo, like, to wealthy tourists. And maybe we’d ship overseas.”
    Maris, Autumn’s younger daughter, slipped into the room. She was bleeding from a jagged head wound. Ignoring us, she reached for a well-worn paperback and curled up on the soft wicker