Robin Jacobs, known to many as Goblin’s biggest asshole, and also owner of the zoo, didn’t care who stained their fingertips with other people’s cigarette butts or who scooped elephant logs into black bags, as long as that someone showed up every day to do it. He agreed to Patrick’s job-swap and just as quickly handed Dirk a brown jumpsuit.

“Ah, but you’re a big one,” Robin said, holding the brown fabric up to Dirk’s chest. “As big as Eula, I’d say. Hope that doesn’t mean you’re also a big problem. Welcome to the Hardy Carroll Goblin Zoo.”

Goblin Sanitation had no reservations about the switch, either, and so Patrick traded the odor of Goblin’s animals for the smell of Goblin’s trash. But right as it felt, there was one thing he was very wrong about. Not only would Dirk be handling the animals after all, he would very soon become the face that every Gobliner thought of when he or she recalled the Goblin Zoo. Dirk would become a celebrity there. He’d own the place. But not like he was the boss. Not that kind of owning. And that semantic would haunt him as darkly as the dreams of leading children down long stone hallways, walls cloaked in webs. Stone slabs so old that Dirk would wake shaking, desperate to know what sort of animals howled and laughed, boomed and bellowed, beyond them.

3

It couldn’t really be stopped. Dirk working the zoo was akin to Hercules getting his shield. A mythic match. His bulking thirty-eight-year-old frame was as eye-popping for the children as the polar bears. His big mitt hands could make an entire unfolded map vanish in a single swipe. He could carry six bags of shit at once (Patrick could barely manage two) and for reasons not wholly understood by any of his co-workers or himself, Dirk had an immediate calming effect on the animals. Was it simply his size? His vibe? What exactly emanated from Dirk that soothed Eula just as she began beating her chest in despair? What unseen element brought the lions to cease roaring as he approached?

Dirk noticed the changes in behavior.