The Identity Crisis

Officer Burke was the kind of cop who'd seen things. Drunk drivers, wrong-way motorists, a man once trying to ride a horse through a McDonald's drive-through. But a sheep on a forklift was new territory, and his face said so.

He walked up slowly, the way you approach something you're not sure is real.

"License and registration," he said, more out of habit than expectation.

Clive patted his wool like he was checking pockets. "Hang on, I know it's in here somewhere..."

"Sir." Burke took off his sunglasses. "Are you a sheep?"

Clive looked down at himself, then back at Burke, and put on his most offended face. "Excuse me?"

"You're covered in wool. You have hooves."

"It's a medical condition," Clive said, without missing a beat. "Very rare. Very sensitive topic, actually. I'd rather not get into it."

Burke opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "A medical condition."

"Wool Syndrome," Clive said gravely. "Look it up."

Burke did not look it up. He pinched the bridge of his nose and stood there for a long moment, clearly running through his options. Arrest the sheep? Write a ticket for the sheep? Call his supervisor and try to explain the sheep?

"If you're human," Burke said carefully, "how many legs do humans have?"

"Two," Clive said. "Obviously. Mine are just... tucked. Under the wool. It's part of the condition."

"What's your favourite food?"

"Burgers," Clive said instantly. "Big ones. With pickles. And those little... onion things." He had no idea what onion things were but it sounded right.

Burke stared at him for what felt like a geological age. Then something behind his eyes just... gave up. Not because he believed Clive. Because the paperwork for "arrested a sheep driving a forklift" would ruin his entire week.

"Get out of here," Burke said. "And if I see you again, we're having a very different conversation."

Clive saluted — badly, because hooves — and scrambled out of the forklift. He walked away on two legs, which was agony, but he kept it up until he rounded the corner. Then he dropped to all fours and bolted for the terminal.

The airport was chaos in the way airports always are — people dragging luggage, kids screaming, a man arguing with a kiosk. Nobody looked at Clive twice. In a building full of people having the worst day of their lives, a sheep in a hurry barely registered.

He joined the security line. Stood on his hind legs. Tried to look bored, which is the most human emotion in an airport.

"Ticket and ID," the security officer said.

Clive produced a crumpled receipt he'd found on the warehouse floor. He held it up with the confidence of a man holding a golden ticket.

The officer looked at it. "This is from Larry's Fish Market."

"Larry's a personal friend," Clive said. "He endorses my travel."

The officer stared at him. Clive stared back. Somewhere behind them, a child dropped an ice cream and started wailing.

"Just go," the officer said.

Clive went.