The sun is bright, the day clear and cold. When I arrive at Hickory Park’s main office building to clock in, I see a cluster of zoo employees huddled in the hallway. Ms. Nell’s flamingo-pink jacket stands out in the crowd. Toby is slumped against a wall, his face pale as cottage cheese. When I walk closer, I see that he’s holding a towel against his arm. Blood soaks through, red against white.
“Didn’t I warn you?” Ms. Nell shouts.
“I just wanted to feed him,” Toby whines. “I see that Alvie chick doing it all the time. But when I opened the cage door he went psycho!”
My stomach turns hollow. Chance. He’s talking about Chance.
“Never mind.” Ms. Nell sighs. “I’ll call your parents. You keep pressure on that cut until the ambulance gets here.”
He sniffles. “Hey, I get workmen’s comp for this, right?”
“We’ll talk about that later.” She glares at the crowd. “All of you, get lost! You got work to do!”
The crowd disperses. Ms. Nell ushers Toby into the break room, then bustles back through the hall, muttering to herself.
Before I have a chance to ask her any questions, she retreats into her office and slams the door. I wait a few minutes, then press my ear against the wood, listening.
“Yes? No, he’s fine. . . . Your boy is fine.” A pause. “Let’s not start talking about lawyers. This was a simple accident. I’m sure we can come to some kind of agreement.” Another pause. “Now, listen here. We can’t be held accountable for employees breaking the rules. Toby was repeatedly warned about going into that enclosure.”
A sneeze builds in my nose, tickling. I muffle it against one arm, but Ms. Nell falls silent, and I know she’s heard me. I slip away and hurry down the path toward Chance.
I find him sitting on his perch, unharmed. Traces of blood gleam on his long, curved black claws. As I approach, he croaks low in his throat. Guh-ruk.
I sit down on the ground next to the enclosure. I don’t move for a long time.
The next day, when I arrive, there’s a white truck parked in my usual spot. I try to remember what it’s for. The food delivery truck is yellow; the veterinary supplies truck is green. I’ve never seen this one.
I clock in at the main office building, then follow the cobblestone path between the rows of birch trees. When I get to Chance’s cage, my chest seizes up. The cage is empty.
I run straight to the main building, to Ms. Nell’s office. Her door is unlocked, and she’s hunched over her desk, reading a paperback romance. When the door bangs open, she jerks upright. “Alvie? What the hell?”
I stride forward and stop when my knees bump against her desk. Her shoulders tense.
“Listen here. You can’t just barge into my office and—”
“Where is Chance.”
She grimaces, then sighs. “I couldn’t keep that bird around, not after what happened. It was too aggressive, too unpredictable.”
“What happened wasn’t Chance’s fault,” I say, speaking as calmly as I can. “He just panicked. I know him. He didn’t mean to hurt Toby.”
She rubs the bridge of her nose. “That’s not the issue. The kid’s parents were foaming at the mouth. His mother’s a rich-as-piss lawyer, his dad’s a doctor, and their precious baby-poo had come home with five stitches in his arm. They wanted blood. I had to do something.”
As she speaks, the coldness in my stomach deepens and spreads. “Where is Chance.”
She looks away. “It’s too late, Alvie. He’s gone.”
I lean forward and plant my hands on the desk. “Where. Is. He.”
Her red-painted lips are pressed into a thin, almost invisible line, her fingers clenched tight on the paperback. A shirtless man in a cowboy hat stares out of the cover. “Do I need to call security?”
My breathing comes shallow and fast. As realization sinks in, light-headedness passes over me. “You killed him,” I whisper.
She freezes. A muscle twitches in her cheek. When she speaks again, her voice is dangerously soft. “I did the responsible thing. Chance was sick—”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“He was sick in the head,” she snaps. “And he wasn’t getting any better. Putting him down was a mercy.”
I want to scream. “You killed him because he was inconvenient to you.”
The blood drains from her face. Then she flushes, and her eyes narrow. “You think I wanted to do this? I had no choice. Those rich assholes could shut this place down. One crazy-ass bird ain’t worth my livelihood . . . not to mention my employees! What the hell would you do without this place, anyway? What the hell do you know?”
“I know that you had a responsibility to Chance.” I’m making things worse, but I can’t stop myself.
A vein pulses in her temple. “Well, this isn’t your zoo, and it’s not your call to make. It’s mine. This is going to happen, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Going to happen. That means it hasn’t happened yet. There’s still a chance to stop it. Breathing hard, I turn to walk out of the office, and Ms. Nell’s voice stops me: “I’m not through with you. Sit down.”
I stand, feet rooted to the spot. My heart knocks against my sternum.
“If you walk out now, don’t bother coming back. Ever. I gave you so many chances, Alvie. I forgave every blunder, every stupid remark you made to the customers, because I felt sorry for you. But I’m done giving you second chances. If you don’t sit down right now, you can kiss this job good-bye.”
My nails dig into my palms, hard enough to send twinges of pain shooting up my arms.
I walk out.
The sunlight glares at me, blinding white, as I stride through the zoo and into the parking lot. The truck is still there, idling. Two men stand beside it, smoking and talking.
I get into my car and watch, heart thudding, as the men get into the truck. Slowly it pulls out of the parking lot. I wait a moment or two, then follow.
The time slips by, dreamy and unreal, as I tail the truck past strip malls and fields, down long, lonely highways, always staying far enough back that my presence isn’t too obvious. I don’t have a plan. I don’t even know where they’re going; all I can do is keep following.
At last, the truck pulls into a lot in front of a small, gray windowless building. The sky above is smudged with dark clouds.
I park in front of a doughnut shop across the street and watch in the rearview mirror as the men park, get out, and open the back of the truck. Because of the angle, I can’t see what’s inside. The men circle around and disappear behind the building, probably going through a back entrance to get a pushcart for the truck’s cargo. I get out of my car and dash across the street toward the building. Behind it, I see a fenced-in area covered with stubbly yellow grass. In the center stands a small structure, a rectangle of brick. It might be a storage shed.
As I move closer, a peculiar smell invades my nostrils: a cold, dead, ashy smell. I take another look at the shed. There’s a small metal door, too small for a person to go through without stooping. The bricks are blackened around the edges with soot. Down near the base of the door, on one rounded brick, is a smear of something rust-colored. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. It’s not a shed at all. It’s an incinerator.
Angry buzzing fills my ears. Black flecks race across my vision.
Death itself is just part of the order of things; I know that. Every day, I fed dead mice to Chance. I’ve seen gazelles ripped apart on nature shows. But this—this is different. This isn’t about killing to eat, killing to live. This is a place where animals deemed worthless are erased from existence, burned away until there’s nothing left, not even bones. The rust-colored smear on the stone seems to swell, filling my vision, then dissolves into a swirl of red and gray. The colors melt into black. I shut my eyes tightly and back away, hands against my temples.
I want Stanley. I want his warmth, his calming scent. But Stanley isn’t here now, and that’s my own doing. I have to deal with this myself.
The men are nowhere in sight. I circle toward the back of the truck.
Inside, pairs of small, reflective eyes stare at me through cage bars—more unwanted animals. I see a few scrawny, mangy cats, a quivering brown dog with one eye, and an obese guinea pig. And there, in the back, almost obscured by the other cages, is Chance. It must be him. The mass of brown feathers inside the carrier cage is motionless, and for a sickening moment, I think I’m too late—then I discern the slight rise and fall of his chest. He’s alive. Sedated, most likely.
I climb into the truck, grab the carrier, hop out, and start to run—then freeze. The other animals stare at me, glassy-eyed with fear.
If I set them free, where will they go? I can’t care for them myself; I don’t have the room or the resources. They’ll be alone, probably frightened. There will be no guarantee of survival. But if I leave them here, they’ll definitely be killed.
The dog whimpers.
The cages have simple latch locks. I flip them all open. Sometimes, an animal that has been caged for a long time will choose to ignore an open door, preferring the comfort of captivity. I can’t force them to escape. All I can do is give them the option.
But I won’t leave Chance. I’ve destroyed nearly everything that matters to me, but I can save him, at least. I can do this much.
I seize his carrier from the truck and make a dash for my car. My body feels oddly weightless, yet I seem to be moving in slow motion, as if I were running on the moon. I open the door, shove the carrier onto the passenger seat, and fumble with my keys.
As I drive, the world floats past, and my mind seems to be suspended somewhere outside my body, like a balloon. Beneath the thin layer of calm, there’s a rising tide of panic.
For now, I’ll take Chance back to my apartment. There, I’ll have a minute to calm myself and analyze the best possible course of action. Somehow, I’ll make this work.
He’ll need food, so I make a stop at an exotic pet store, home to snakes, iguanas, and a few large birds. I buy a box of frozen feeder mice sealed in individual bags, stiff and cold under the clear plastic, like white furry Popsicles.
I arrive home, elbow my door shut, and set the carrier cage on the coffee table.
Scrape, scrape. Chance’s carrier wobbles. He’s waking up.
When I unlatch the door, he lunges out and tumbles onto the couch in a feathered heap. His beak is open, his copper-gold eyes pinning with agitation, pupils dilating and contracting rapidly.
I reach out. He leaps off the couch, flapping his wing hard, and slams against the window; his claws snag on the curtain and rip it down. Tangled in cloth, he falls and flops around on the carpet. I grab the curtain and tug it off, freeing him. He promptly tries to launch himself into the air again and instead crashes into a pile of books and magazines, scattering them. His talons splay across the glossy cover of a science fiction paperback as his wing and tail feathers fan out, seeking balance.
For a minute, he paces the room, his movements rapid and jerky. His tail feathers lift, and a dropping falls to the floor.
Well, the carpet is already filthy. The excrement practically blends in with its dirty off-white color.
Breathe in, breathe out. Focus. One problem at a time.
I spread some newspapers across the floor. I tape some more on the window to replace the torn curtain.
Next: food for my new houseguest.
In my kitchen, I boil some water on the stove, then turn off the flame and submerge the frozen mice in the kettle. They bob up and down, beady black eyes staring up at me.
Keeping a bird of prey is illegal unless you have a license, which I do not. I have to be careful, but as long as no one finds out about Chance, he should be safe here. For a while. The bigger issue is my newfound unemployment.
For eighteen months, my job at Hickory Park Zoo was my anchor. It was proof that I was a functioning adult, that I could make it on my own, that I wasn’t the useless, helpless burden that so many people assumed I was. And now it’s gone.
I can’t afford to waste time moping. Rent is due in five days, and I have sixty-two dollars in my checking account. I need a new job.
I squeeze one of the bagged mice, making sure it’s soft and squishy. Then I unbag it and deposit it on the floor near Chance’s feet. “Dinner,” I say.
Chance cocks his head and blinks with his inner eyelids, filmy membranes flicking across the bright orbs. He punctures the mouse’s belly with his beak and pulls out a long string of guts, like pink spaghetti.
Sitting on the couch, I power up my laptop and do a search for jobs in the area. Burrito Mania, the Mexican takeout place a few blocks from my house, is hiring.
I bring up an online application. On the screen, a cartoon burrito in a sombrero smiles at me as I read the first question: So, why are YOU passionate about working at Burrito Mania?
I don’t know how to answer this. I don’t understand why anyone would be passionate about working at Burrito Mania. I’ve been told before that “I need money” is not an acceptable answer, even though that’s why most people are looking for work. I finally write I like burritos, which is both true and relevant. It’s possible that I’ll get a discount on the food if I work there. In the interest of full disclosure, I add that Mexican food makes me gassy, so I try not to consume it more than once or twice a week.
The next question asks, Are you a “people person”?
I don’t see any way to answer that honestly without making myself look bad, so I leave it blank.
As I glance through more applications for restaurants and stores, I find myself leaving lots of lines blank.
Do you consider yourself a team player?
Are you outgoing?
What makes you fun to be around?
How would your friends describe you?
The words start to blur and dance around on the screen like malevolent ants.
On a coffee shop website, I click on a link, bringing up another application. What are your core values, and how do you think working at Jitters would help you express those values?
I believe that it’s important to be honest, and I believe that the feelings of all beings should be respected, and I believe that it’s wrong to hurt people or animals, unless it’s in self-defense. But I don’t understand how working at a coffee shop will help me express any of these values, except that I’m not planning to murder any customers.
What do you consider to be your greatest flaw?
I don’t understand why I can’t just show up and do the job. I don’t understand why simple competence isn’t enough, why they have to dig around in my psyche and examine every filthy secret.
Describe a problem at your last job and explain how you resolved that problem.
I resolved it by getting fired.
My stomach clenches in a spasm. I can’t do this. I can’t—I can’t—
I jerk to my feet and kick over the coffee table. The laptop tumbles to the floor, and Chance’s head swivels toward me. A string of mouse guts dangles from his beak.
All the strength runs out of me, and I slump against the wall as if all my bones have turned liquid. My chest heaves.
I need to get a grip on myself.
I sit down, pick up my laptop. One by one, I go through the applications and fill out the parts that I know I can do: my name, my address and phone number, my education and previous experience. I leave everything else blank. I’ll just have to send them in like this and hope that it’s enough.
Once I’m finished, I collapse on the couch, exhausted, and drift in and out of a troubled sleep. Outside the window, wind howls, and sleet hammers the glass. It’s begun to storm. My vision blurs, then goes dark as I sink inside myself.