Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Caprice has been here for the entirety of her twelve years, born at the zoo just like her offspring. When I started here four years ago, we became fast friends. Mostly because I bring food, but there are other workers who do that, yet they don’t have the same bond with her that I do. Somehow, our connection is different. She talks to me, watches and follows me around in the backstage area of their habitat, and has even protected me when one of the younger male gibbons tried throwing his nutritional biscuit at me in protest. Suffice it to say that after her intervention, that male never did anything like that again. It might sound silly to some people, but I consider Caprice a friend.
“You can talk to monkeys?” Dominic teases.
“Gibbons aren’t monkeys. Technically, they’re lesser apes,” I say automatically, ready to launch into my speech about the origins and differences. But then I see Dominic fighting not to smile and realize the truth. “Which you already knew because either Harley or Gary has told you everything there is to know about gibbons today.”
He chuckles. “Both actually, and Gary knows a lot. But I would love to hear it from you too.”
The way he says it, with his dark gaze dropping to my lips and the slightest heat in his tone, I think he truly would listen to me ramble on my favorite subject for hours. Not that I’m going to test that theory.
My walkie-talkie crackles at my waist, Jonah calling for me. I grab it and lift it to my mouth. “This is Briar. Go ahead.”
“You were just over here at Flamingo Fountain, right? It’s flooding again,” Jonah answers.
Under my breath, I whisper, “Shit.” The drain in the flamingo area has been clogging too often, which creates stress on the sensitive birds. “I’m coming,” I tell Jonah on the walkie-talkie. To Dominic and Harley, I say, “I’ll be back. I’ve got to go unclog the drain again.”
I start to jog toward the flamingos but realize there’s another thud sounding out along with my boots’ clomping noise. I glance over my shoulder to find Dominic jogging along with me and I stop. “What are you doing?”
“Helping. A flood sounds serious. Let’s go,” he answers.
He doesn’t wait for me to say anything—not thank you, or I don’t need you. He just starts jogging in the same direction we were going. Apparently, he’s helping? I look back at Harley, checking in, and when he catches my eye, he flashes me a thumbs-up that he’s okay and then points at Gary, who also gives me a thumbs-up. My son is here a lot, knows how to behave himself, and every employee recognizes him. Trusting that he’ll be fine with both Gary and Trina watching from nearby, I continue after Dominic.
He’s made some headway on me, apparently using the signs to direct his path, and I catch up right as he reaches Flamingo Fountain.
“Where’s the issue?” he asks, annoyingly not even breathing hard. Unlike me.
“Drain. Clogged,” I pant, pointing. The drain itself is under the murky, muddy water and not visible, but I’ve dealt with it enough to find it blindly. “Jonah will help take care of it.”
Dominic frowns, worried eyes swinging from me to the flamingos, who have water nearly up to their knees now. But they’re fine. Not in danger or anything serious, they just don’t like changes in their environment, like rapidly rising water.
“I’ve got it.”
And before I can stop him, Dominic wades into the water, tennis shoes and jeans and all, like it’s nothing. He tries not to splash, kinda skating forward instead of stepping, so as not to scare the flamingos.
“Tell me where,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me, but keeping a close eye on the birds. Even in the wild, they’re not aggressive, and in captivity, the most they might do is approach in hopes of getting a shrimp pellet, but he’s acting like he’s been cast as the hapless victim on When Flamingos Attack. To be fair, they’re watching him with bald curiosity, but that’s about it.
“Two feet to your left.” He moves accordingly. “Right there,” I say. “You should be able to feel it with your right foot. There’s usually grass and dirt covering the grate.”
He looks thoughtful as he tries to find it under the water. “Got it.”
I expect him to kick the debris out of the way. Maybe swipe it with his foot. But nope. Dominic bends down, reaching under the dirty water with his hand to clear the clog. He angles his head to keep his face out of the water, but it’s still up to his chin as he works.
The flamingos, now especially interested in the unusual specimen in their midst, move closer. “Marion, leave him alone,” I warn one of the more curious and territorial males.