When I awake the next morning, I see a little trunk poking out between the bars of Stella’s domain.
“Hello,” says a small, clear voice. “I’m Ruby.” She waves her trunk.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Ivan.”
“Are you a monkey?” Ruby asks.
“Certainly not.”
Bob’s ears perk up, although his eyes stay closed. “He’s a gorilla,” he says. “And I am a dog of uncertain heritage.”
“Why did the dog climb your tummy?” Ruby asks.
“Because it’s there,” Bob murmurs.
“Is Stella awake?” I ask.
“Aunt Stella’s asleep,” Ruby says. “Her foot is hurting, I think.”
Ruby turns her head. Her eyes are like Stella’s, black and long-lashed, bottomless lakes fringed by tall grass. “When is breakfast?” she asks.
“Soon,” I say. “When the mall opens and the workers come.”
“Where”—Ruby twists her head in the other direction—“where are the other elephants?”
“It’s just you and Stella,” I say, and for some reason, I feel we have let her down.
“Are there more of you?”
“Not,” I say, “at the moment.”
Ruby picks up a piece of hay and considers it. “Do you have a mom and a dad?”
“Well … I used to.”
“Everyone has parents,” Bob explains. “It’s unavoidable.”
“Before the circus, I used to live with my mom and my aunts and my sisters and my cousins,” Ruby says. She drops the hay, picks it up, twirls it. “They’re dead.”
I don’t know what to say. I am not really enjoying this conversation, but I can see that Ruby isn’t done talking. To be polite, I say, “I’m sorry to hear that, Ruby.”
“Humans killed them,” she says.
“Who else?” Bob asks, and we all fall silent.