He has lost Mark. Robby does not know what to do now, standing here by himself, staring at hogs. Mark would know what to do, surely, and he cannot have just vanished. He is so quiet, though, Mark. That is the problem. He can slip away without you noticing.

No one ever says Robby is too quiet.

He and Mark were standing by the lake, right next to each other, as the first shots sprayed through the air – you couldn’t see the actual bullets, but you could see brick shards and bits of leaves and branches from the parrot habitat and also feathers, bright ones, and the air was churned up and crowded like in the middle of a storm only faster and no one had ever told him guns could make it like that. There was screaming, the wordless kind, and also a lot of people’s names being yelled – ‘Elizabeth!’ over and over. There was a moment when he was frozen by all of it, and then he and Mark started running, following the few people who could still move – a dozen or so were on the ground by then, face up and face down, and he stepped over a woman whispering nothing as he rushed up the hill and they tried the restaurant at the top of the hill but there was no luck there, and then they headed toward the jungle cats, and Mark was still right next to him. But then Robby looked over his shoulder, and Mark was gone. So Robby stopped here in this shaded gazebo by the wild hogs, only the sign calls them BOARS.

It is a pretty good place, because there are walls around him, so you can’t see him from a distance, but he can look through the slits between the boards and watch the walkways. The boars are snuffling around the dirt in their pen, tusks filthy. They don’t care about guns and bullets. He can tell that for sure.

Robby does not know if he should keep moving or wait here. Should he call out and hope that the wrong people don’t hear him?

It is easier to wait. To watch. He is good at watching.

There are not so many things he is good at. He thinks of a birthday party from a long time ago, and he does not want to think of it – he tries to focus on the boars, on the size of their heads and how they do not have necks and, no, he will not think of the birthday, but he is somehow firing the wrong neuron, one that does not delete but instead underlines: the day when he walked into Aidan’s party, the one where his mother told him that there would be s’mores, and he loved s’mores, and Aidan’s mother answered the door and gave him a hug and showed him how she had set up a tent in the den.

Aidan’s mother was pretty, her dark hair so long, and she was especially nice and agreed with him about how the Raiders had the scariest NFL logo. In his memory, he is having a good time talking to Aidan’s mother, and it was so nice that someone was listening, and the other kids were doing something else – some sort of fishing game with clothespins and string? – and then he needed to go to the bathroom. When he was coming back down the hallway, he heard Aidan’s mom talking.

‘I have something to say to all of you,’ she was saying, and her voice was very serious, and he’d sped up because he did not want to miss any instructions about graham crackers and chocolate.

‘I want you to be nice to Robby,’ she said just as he was getting to the doorway, just as he was pressing himself against the wall and making himself invisible. ‘He’s unique. That’s all.’

Robby had known already that he was not quite the same as the others. But it changed things to hear the words announced. Aidan’s mom was trying to make it sound like she was giving him a compliment, but it was not one, and he knew that and so did everyone else. And now here he is, nothing but wild pigs for company, and they are covered in mud and shit, disgusting, and today was supposed to be different, wasn’t it? Finally. He was part of something. He fit. But maybe the others were only being patient, and maybe they’d planned this the whole time. No, that doesn’t make sense.

He rubs his hands against his pants. Opens and closes his fingers. Sweaty hands. That was another problem with kids’ parties – too many hand-holding games, and they’d say, Oh, your hands, and once even a grown-up called him that sweaty kid. But the breeze is helping, drying his palms, and he can’t just stand here, pussing out. He has to think, even though he is better at feeling – well, not great exactly, but he feels plenty. He feels too much. More than other people feel, and he tells them that sometimes, but they don’t understand.

He is supposed to be paying attention. He looks left and right, focusing on anything moving. He needs to be looking for people. There is a swish of the tails from the zebra exhibit farther down the walkway. The railroad track. Trees. Squirrels in the branches, running after each other. He tries to look at all of it.

Before Robby lost Mark, he heard him say that they will die if they don’t get out of here. He looks at the boars again. He thinks of the whispering woman he stepped over while he was running. She had on a khaki zoo uniform, and almost exactly half of her shirt had turned purplish-red. He watches the boars and thinks how it would be to have one for a pet, and he thinks the same thing about the squirrels, about pets, but also about the two squirrels chasing each other, whether it is a game or something serious, and how do these squirrels feel about each other?

Think.

Think.

Is it so hard for everyone else to make the right thoughts stay lined up, one following the other, train cars hooked together? He is always veering off, and the feelings are pushing up again. Where is Mark? Will he be standing here alone until men with guns come in and shoot him dead, and was it the biggest mistake he’s ever made to come to the zoo today? Was he stupid? He is stupid, mostly. Sometimes he is sure of it, and his mother always hates it when he says that, and his mother – he closes his eyes, tries to catch his breath. Why does he do this? Why does he always wind up, too late, wishing he could undo things, wishing he could start over, hating how he screwed up, knowing he will screw up again?

One of the boars is taking a leak on the ground. They are gross animals, ugly and stupid-looking, and why did they let themselves get caught in a cage in the first place?

He raises the gun in his hand, settling the barrel into his palm, lifting it over the fencing. He pulls the trigger. His hearing has been off, muzzy, since they came through the entrance, and he wishes they’d thought to bring earplugs with them, but now the shots don’t sound as loud. He goes for speed instead of accuracy, aiming at head, belly and tail: he would like to shoot off the tail. He’s only a couple of yards away instead of forty or fifty, like at the range, and this target isn’t moving like the people, so he’s surprised by the damage he does. The first pig is ripped open, everything spilling out of its belly into the dirt, steaming, and the second boar is dead, too, and he backs out of the gazebo before the smell gets to him.

No one ever mentioned the smells.

He keeps his fingers curved around the trigger of his Bushmaster, a classic, and he feels solid again. He’s gotten the thoughts and the feelings under control. He doesn’t know why Mark gave him crap about how he needed an adjustment to the handle, how the extended back strap would give him a better angle. He likes it just like it is. It feels good in his hand.

He hears footsteps. He turns, gun ready.

‘Calm down, moron!’ yells Mark, ducking so low he is nearly on his knees. He has his Glock in his hand and a Smith & Wesson in his holster.

Robby lowers the gun. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Hunting. I thought you were right behind me. You ready?’

Robby nods.