While Jomon is sleeping, Gather is waking up.
The night breeze, fresh from the Caribbean Sea, slips into the exhibit hall through the gaps in the plastic sheeting. It inches around, exploring, discovering new territory, taking up new space.
It winds its way around Gather’s tree-trunk legs, then swirls over her strong belly and shoulders. It breathes a thousand scents into her nostrils. A thousand tastes dance on her tongue.
It whispers in her ears, “Come out!”
Gather smells and tastes and hears.
And wakes up.
She moves her arm, just a little. It is stiff from being posed in one spot for such a long time. She moves it some more. She wiggles her long claws. She sways her hips. Then she puts one foot out in front of her. She moves her other foot.
Soon she is at the plastic wall.
She pushes it aside as if it is fog.
Gather is quiet. She makes not a sound as she slips out onto the street.
She fills her lungs.
It is good to be alive.
Again.