stacked together as a small lump of feathers on a sawed limb. It
seems ironic that in such a massive, award winning exhibition with
things prefer to huddle together in a tiny corner where they feel
safe. Safe together.
barn and I slip in behind him. He always comes here, every night.
He has a sad story. His young daughter was killed—hit by a car—
while playing in the neighbor’s yard. Four years old. She probably
closet. And now Allan, aged sixty three, sits on a defaced bench
in an old shed that the zoo turned into a makeshift home for the
ago. Since then, there were budget cuts, and the zoo had to lay off
some of the college students who used to paint animal faces and
super hero masks on little kids—on hot days the face paint dripped
and the cherubic faces of innumerable Spider Men melted into
something demonic.
Avery. Perhaps that was the girl’s name.
I