It is early morning, and I am free of the chains! I broke them because there was an insect. It was a buzzing yellow jacket, and I did not want to be stung.
So now I am running.
I am afraid, as if the entire world has turned into one big buzzing bee. I am scared of being without Bill, scared of having nowhere to go, scared of leaving my home. I can feel my heart inside of me.
I run. I thunder past the yipping little dogs and the sleeping lion and the climbing monkey. I run past the quiet trailers. People are noticing, coming out on their porches, staring. Some yell. I run past the things that are no longer used in the circus: the rusted Ferris wheel and the silent carousel and the abandoned cotton candy stand.
I run all the way to the end of the winter camp, to the water—the lake where the Giant once caught fish. I stop to drink, drink, drink. I am so thirsty. I drink until I see a winter fish, swimming silver and quick.
The fish startles me; it makes me think too much of Bill. Bill loved to hold a fishing pole in water, waiting patiently for the nibbling bites of hungry fish. I wish he were with me still.
I begin to run again. My ears flap; my trunk swings; my feet pound the ground. I sound powerful. Cars stop on the road and people use their phones to take my picture. Somebody screams.
“An elephant! It could kill us! Get back in the car!”
I would not kill anything. I have never hurt anyone.