She becomes so absorbed that she does not notice the lights in the hall turn off. There is a sudden knock on the glass and she jumps, nearly upsetting the ladder. When she turns, she sees Dr. Fisher, wiping away at the two oval smudges left by the teenager with the inside of his sleeve.

He smiles apologetically. He is perhaps ten years older than she is. Not really old at all. He motions to his watch and Mary nods. She signals that it will take her a few minutes to gather her things, and he indicates that he will wait by the front doors. They have developed this routine over the past few weeks. An evening game of charades.

Mary quickly rinses her brushes in turpentine, packs her paints, and crawls behind an outcropping of rocks through the tiny door leading to the back room. As she comes out into the hall, she pauses for a moment to examine her work. Half of the wall has been completed. The wildebeests fade as they get larger, closer to the leaders of the herd. The painting reminds her of one of her father’s, a project he began when he was first diagnosed. She had been away at art school, and it was a shock to come home and find him in bed and the canvas in the living room, a tunneling image unlike anything he’d done before, fading as it grew larger, an inverse explosion.

The paint bag is heavy. It cuts into Mary’s shoulder as she walks, her footsteps clicking against the marble. The only light is coming from inside the dioramas, but it is enough for her to find the exit. As she rounds a corner, she glances down the small mammal corridor and sees something large crouching at the end, in the darkness. When she stops, it hesitates for a moment, then moves into the shadows of the reptile room.

Mary feels a rush of fear spread up the backs of her legs and out into her fingertips. She clutches her bag, quickens her pace, and holds her breath until she is through the door. On the other side Dr. Fisher is waiting, his briefcase in hand, his jacket stretched across his tiny, hulking shoulders.

“Something’s in there,” Mary says. “A dog, maybe, but it was bigger than a dog.” She drops her bag on the ground, and then she does something that she never thought she would do. She takes hold of Dr. Fisher’s arm with both of her hands and clings to it.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Fisher walks to the door and Mary shuffles next to him, the fear still in her legs. She is sweating. He opens the door a crack. He sticks his head in.

“Hello?”

“It’s not going to answer you,” she whispers.