She nods. “How fast do they work?”

“On something like a big cat?” He shakes his head. “Not fast enough.”

I look over at Ruby. “Stay close, kid.”

As we near the gorilla villa—what’s left of it, anyways—a screech hits my ears that makes the wailing police sirens sound like mewling kittens.

It’s Kinyani.

She’s frantically knuckle running back and forth near the collapsed gorilla villa. Chunks of cement, shredded wooden beams, and bent metal lie everywhere. A cluster of gorilla females and juveniles huddle not far from some rescue workers.

“There’s Mama!” Kudzoo cries, dashing toward a gorilla named Jodi.

I’m so horrified by the destruction that I’ve almost forgotten my muddy little charge.

I really shouldn’t be trusted as an ape-sitter.

Kudzoo darts over to her mother’s waiting embrace. Jodi nuzzles her and strokes her and says soothing, motherly gorilla things. “Thank you,” Jodi mouths to me.

“Don’t thank me,” I say, looking over at Ruby. “Thank this little gal. She figured out how to save Kudzoo.”

“Thank you—Ruby, isn’t it? Ivan’s friend?”

Ruby gives a shy nod. “We all helped.”

“I provided moral support,” I add.

“I flew, Mama,” says Kudzoo.

“Of course you did, dear,” says Jodi.

Kinyani’s fresh wails focus my mind. “I gotta go,” I say. “Ruby, you should stay here.” I’m going for a no-nonsense voice, the one Julia uses on me when she calls me “Robert.” “Lemme see what’s what. I’ll be right back.”

“No way, Uncle Bob,” Ruby replies, just as firmly.

I give up. But I’m afraid of what she might see. Of what we both might see.

“Any sign of Ivan?” I ask Jodi.

She shakes her head, a grim look clouding her eyes.

With Ruby by my side, we approach the pile of wreckage that used to be the gorilla villa.

At the same moment, Ruby and I gasp.

There’s Ivan’s hand, barely peeking through the rubble.

not moving

I know that hand like the back of my own paw.

“No!” Ruby screams. “Uncle Ivan!”

I check the crowd. No sign of Julia or George. Nothing. No Maya, either, or other keepers I recognize. Just a few employees, several rescue workers, and two or three dazed-looking visitors.

“Is he alive?” a firefighter asks.

“Hand—whatever it’s called—isn’t moving,” says another.

Weaving my way through the tangle of legs, I climb up the rubble pile, sniff a bit, and bark my loudest Yes, he’s alive, get your rears in gear bark.

Just like those overachieving rescue dogs in the Man’s Best Friend show.

I listen for a sound from Ivan, a grunt, a cry for help. Nothing.

Still, he smells alive.

At least I think he does. And that’s good enough for me.

xena