“Modern animals are very different from our ancestors. Many species have grown larger, become bipedal, and developed vocal cords and opposable thumbs. The common explanation for these changes is humans were holding animal evolution back for millennia. Their extinction allowed for the rise of animals, in the same way the dinosaurs’ extinction made way for the rise of man. And, much as humans were able to use the dinosaur’s remains as fossil fuels, animals have used ancient human texts to fuel our intellectual advancement. But more rigorous scientific and historic research is needed to truly understand animalkind’s remarkable evolution.”–from an early draft of The History of Animalia by Buick Dyson, redacted by the Colony before publication
The piece of paper in Mom’s paw trembled. “Have a look.”
As I unfolded it, a familiar but almost-forgotten scent drifted up. When I held it to my face and inhaled, I was gut-punched by the mixture of Dr. Brawny’s Brown Bear Fur Pomade, pipe tobacco, and a hint of the dust left behind by puffed cheese snacks. It smelled like Dad. The page was some kind of Colony form. Dad’s signature scrawled across the bottom beside the date, just over two years ago. My eyes couldn’t make out any other words through a sudden haze of tears. “What is this?”
Mom’s shoulders slumped, making her look small. “Your father’s application for a travel permit. He knew the research trip he was taking was dangerous, but he insisted on going. You know how I feel about leaving the Stable. How dangerous it is out there. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“You tried to what? I—I thought the Colony sent him on a secret government mission. I didn’t think he had a choice.” I felt dizzy and disoriented, like I just found out I’d been mishearing the lyrics to a song I could’ve sworn I knew by heart.
“It wasn’t the elders’ idea. They almost didn’t let him go, but he talked his way to a split vote. Before he disappeared, your Dad got obsessed with a…certain research topic. You know how he was.” A smile tugged on her lips. It bothered me, because it was the kind of sad, dreamy smile you’d wear if you were replaying a fond memory of a dead loved one.
I did know how Dad was: studious, absent-minded, serious most of the time. As the best-known historian in Animalia, he worked ridiculously long hours, sometimes as many as forty a week. The textbooks he wrote were assigned reading for every schoolkid in the Colony. Before he took off, he’d gotten so preoccupied, it seemed like all he did was work and sleep. His creative activity suffered—the only time he bothered practicing his origami was when he’d leave me a list of chores folded into some strange shape—as did his physical exercise. When I was little, he and I used to play lacrossbun together several times a week, but I couldn’t remember the last time he’d thrown a cross bun with me.
Mom patted my knee gently. “Cara, Dad loved us very much. If he were still alive, he’d have come home long ago. I showed you his travel permit to give you some closure. He was taken from us too soon, and his death devastated me. But it taught me a hard lesson: life is uncertain, and loss is a given. The only variable you have control over is whether you shut down after losing someone, or whether you move on and let new animals into your heart. The loved ones you add to your life help heal the hurt of the loved ones who’ve been taken away. It’s the only thing that sort of…balances the equation.”
Leave it to Mom, a data analyst for the solar energy plant, to look at Dad’s disappearance like it was some kind of math problem. She might think plugging Sherwin in where Dad used to be could somehow make x equal y again, but I didn’t need a calculator to tell me that does not compute.
As if on cue, the cat in question stuck his head out of the door of the house and called, “Porridge’s ready!”
“C’mon. Let’s eat,” Mom said. “You’ll feel better when you’ve got some food in your belly.” She tried to tickle me, but it didn’t take.
Sherwin hissed, “Don’t baby her, Amana. She’ll come in when she gets hungry.”
They went inside, and I grumbled, “Porridge. It’s what you eat for your afterschool snack when you want a terrible ending to a terrible day.”
The empty yard didn’t say anything back.
The permit laid in my paw, almost as crumpled as the heart aching in my chest. I wiped away my tears and pored over the page. A box in the upper right-hand corner with a couple strange-looking numbers brought Mom’s annoying math analogy to mind. She didn’t get how I felt at all, but that was nothing new. I’m a lover of words, like my dad, whereas Amana Dyson’s always been into numbers.
The edges of the form were frayed, I guessed from Mom carrying it around the last two years. Embossed stamps of approval from the elders lined the bottom. The longer I sat there, breathing in Dad’s scent, tracing his signature with my claw, the closer I felt to him. And the angrier at Mom for giving up on him.
Something about the numbers at the top of the form, with their little circles and apostrophe marks sprinkled in, kept nagging at the edges of my mind. They reminded me of something I’d learned in school, but it wasn’t from math class.
That’s it!
My heart stopped and I nearly fell out of the hammock when it hit me what they must represent: the longitude and latitude of Dad’s destination.
What Mom gave me wasn’t closure. What she gave me were coordinates. My first piece of concrete evidence about Dad’s last known whereabouts. If I could retrace his steps, maybe I’d find him, nose buried in a book, having lost track of time. He’d look up from his work and ask me what was for dinner, as if the past couple years had only been a couple weeks. I’d bring him home and he’d nip this wedding nonsense in the bud.
I had no idea if those coordinates were located around the corner or around the world, but I knew where I could go for answers. The Pachyderm. If I high-tailed it, I could make it to the Lair of Important Matters and back before sundown.
