Something about capybaras being the world's largest rodent. Kids squealing.
My eyes keep flicking back to the gorillas.
Luka—the alpha male—is closer now, ambling toward the glass with that ground-shaking, knuckle-walking stride. He stops near the edge of the moat, head tilted, watching the crowd.
Noise rises—laughter, chatter, the zookeeper's amplified voice.
I shift to get a better look at the gorillas again, stepping a hair to the right, close enough that my shoulder brushes Marie's.
She stiffens.
I instinctively tilt away, giving her more space.
The stage show ramps up.
The zookeeper tosses some food. Birds flutter. People clap.
Then everything happens at once.
A scream.
High, sharp, wrong.
Not the excited kind.
Thefallingkind.
I whip my head toward the sound.
For a split second, my brain can't compute what I'm seeing.
The stretch of concrete in front of the gorilla enclosure railing is empty—no Marie, no bag. Just the rail.
Marie.
On the wrong side of the barrier.
She's tumbling down the incline toward the lower level where the gorillas roam, arms flailing, bag flying. She hits the hard-packed ground at the bottom with a sickening thud and rolls, coming to rest a few yards from the base of Luka's rock.
The alpha gorilla surges to his feet, startled.
He beats his chest once, roaring.
The sound tears through the air, primal and furious.
Marie screams again.
Every alpha near me goes feral.
"Fuck," Drake chokes.
"Marie!" Eli shouts.
Ragon's hand vanishes from my neck as he lunges forward, slamming into the railing so hard it rattles.
Chaos erupts.
People gasp. Someone cries. A mom yanks her child back; a dad swears. Staff shout into radios. The zookeeper goes pale, mic squealing as it drops.
