“Who’s in charge? You’re going to find old Wino-dad’s boss and you’ll protest. You’re going to resubmit, or re-edit, or whatever it takes. And if they ignore you, we’re going to call a reporter and tell them the story of a city university giving up on a hardworking student just because he doesn’t fit in with their cookie-cutter mode. You’re no alpaca-scholar cookie.”

Alfonzo hummed what he could not say. “I am not good enough for the university. I could not fit in. Every part of the academy whispered that I wasn’t right. The fluorescent lights looked down on me. The papers cut me. The carpet tripped me. The library hid its serious journals. When the printer rebelled, I should have taken it as a sign. I am a meanderer, a grazer, and what they want are straight-line walkers, those with a strong sense of direction. I have been asleep to my true self.”

“Okay,” Mitchell nudged, “I hear you, though you’re wrong. If you don’t want to fight, then I won’t insist. But you did seasons of writing dedicated to understanding animal life in the city. We need these stories. We need historians and thinkers to listen and guide us. I reject their rejection.”

For the second time that day, Alfonzo started crying. He laughed and coughed to cover it up, but Mitchell saw.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to play hooky for the rest of the day, and you’re going to come with me to do a site visit in the Rockaways. We’ll pretend you’re my assistant or something. We’ll work this out. We’ll have a time at the dangerous exciting beach.”

Alfonzo considered. No one would come down to the Department of Records that day. No one ever came.

“Hum,” Alfonzo agreed.

They stopped in at The Early Cenozoic so that Mitchell could whisper playful conspiracies with barista-lemur Pamella. Dawn came into the café and interrupted with cheek nuzzles; she had let the awkwardness of their fight about Good Dogs dissolve, and Alfonzo was grateful. Mitchell slid Pamella an envelope and an affectionate look, then swept Alfonzo out the door. The sadness of the day sensitized him to the joy of the outside, the smell of leaves and pretzels, other creatures’ shampoos and their deeper hidden funks.

“Was that a love note?” Alfonzo teased.

“Of a kind,” said Mitchell.