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was now just another asshole who had mistreated him.
    I stepped into the anteroom, closing the door behind me, cleanly cutting off the chatter
     and screams of the monkeys. My mother was sitting on a chair, her hands folded in
     her lap. I noticed for the first time how narrow her shoulders were. How deep lines
     bracketed her mouth, like parenthetical whispers.
    “I’m going to Africa,” I told her. “Whether or not you think it’s a good idea.”
    She glanced up. “Alice, it’s a mistake.”
    I thought of Hawkeye ripping off the skin from the back of my hand when I let down
     my guard.
If you get hurt, it’s always your own fault
. “Maybe. But it’s still mine to make.”
    My mother took a step forward, firmly putting one hand on my elbow and unwrapping
     the cotton of my lab coat from my hand to get a closer look. “You need stitches,”
     she said. Her fingers were cool and efficient as she probed the flap of hanging skin
     and blotted the pool of blood.
    Suddenly I felt dizzy, and the room buzzed. I swayed forward and found myself caught
     in her arms. “You’re fine,” she said, as if that was all it would take to heal me.
     She pivoted so I could sit down before I fell.
    I thought of skinned knees, of tipped bicycles. Of being hoisted onto the kitchen
     counter for a spray of Bactine and a Band-Aid.
    Over my mother’s shoulder, I looked at the macaques.
    A mistreated monkey was biologically programmed to avoid situations where he might
     be put in danger again, or to lash out before it could happen. That was the whole
     point of encoded memory. We could literally see the places in the brain where the
     past was etched, to encourage caution in a similar circumstance.
    And yet, 99 percent of the time, the monkey did
not
lash out. Somehow, although he did not forget the last time he was hurt, he still
     managed to forgive.

    The elephant calf drank liters and liters of the powdered milk I’d mixed up. She drank
     until she fell asleep from the effort of sucking, the rubber glove nipple slipping
     out of her mouth. But then she woke, tossing and turning, and everything she’d eaten
     passed through her in a green liquid stool.
    My clothes are spattered. I am covered in shit.
    I’ve tried to clean it up. I’ve poured so much bleach on the floor and walls of my
     cottage that I am afraid of asphyxiating from the fumes. There is a knock on my door
     just after 7:00 P.M. , when the vehicles come back from their day in the field. “Alice?” Anyacalls softly. “I brought you some soup.”
    The elephant picks that moment to squeal.
    “What the hell?” Anya says.
    “I’m listening to audiotapes!” I lie. “Trying to get at least a little work done.”
     Glaring at the calf, I will her to be quiet.
    “Do I smell
bleach
 …?”
    The knob turns, and my heart hammers. We don’t have locks here; there is no way for
     me to keep Anya out. “Don’t come in,” I moan. “You don’t want to catch this, believe
     me. I’m sterilizing every surface I touch.”
    “But you have to eat …”
    “Honestly, I still can’t keep anything down.”
    There is a silence as Anya weighs the responsibilities of friendship against the symptoms
     of this plague. “Well,” she says. “You’ll yell if you need anything, right?”
    I listen for her retreating footsteps as she leaves my porch. She will join the other
     researchers for cards and wine, and she’ll tell them I feel like hell. The tourists
     will be getting ready for dinner in the
boma
. The rangers will go to sleep. My secret is safe, for the moment.
    I lie down beside the calf on the floor. I look at the smooth slope of her forehead,
     the long lashes framing her eyes. Her cheeks are sunken, her skin the color of ash.
     As I trace the road map of blue veins in her ear, she lifts her trunk and tries to
     curl it around my wrist like a bracelet.
    She’s getting weaker. I have spent the day mixing up the powdered milk in various
     strengths, trying to