NICOLE TREMAINE

Nicole Tremaine, twenty-three, took a sheep. Couldn't tell you why. Asked several ways, she remained pretty firm on not knowing a damn thing about her own plan.

Glen Whitaker's four sheep had just been unloaded at First Baptist for the Nativity. Nicole was crossing the parking lot to the craft fair in a dark hoodie. One sheep looked at her. She looked back. She opened her Escort's rear door and it climbed in.

"On its own," she said. "I ain't out here loading sheep."

No, hon. Just providing transportation.

She drove around the square twice. Said the sheep liked the radio. I believe her. Nicole wanted company, the sheep wanted a ride, and neither one had the sense to ask Glen.

Deputy Hargrove stopped her in front of the Rexall because a sheep was looking out the Escort's back window.

"Ma'am, is that a sheep?"

"It's Glen's."

"Does Glen know?"

"Glen's got three more."

"Well, hell, that's inventory. I asked about permission."

She's wide-eyed in the Polaroid, faint smile, hoodie, just discovering how little encouragement it takes to get her ass in trouble.

The sheep went back fine. Glen called it "the dumb one." Same sheep got on the highway later. Nicole says that's not her fault. It isn't. It is. You show a sheep the world, don't act surprised when the little shit wants another look.