Chapter 4: The Interview
The flamingos were new. A splash of impossible pink against the emerald reeds, they moved through the shallow end of the pond with a slow, deliberate grace that made Jessica feel clumsy. She watched them from her perch on a low-hanging branch, one leg dangling, her chin resting on her knee. It was a quiet Tuesday, the post-lunch lull where the crowds thinned. The only sounds were the soft clucking of the birds, the trickle of the stream, and the distant, muffured roar of some big cat from another sector.
A movement at the service door caught her eye. Not the usual rhythmic slide of Leo or Mara. This was hesitant. The door opened just enough for a figure to slip through, someone in the standard khaki keeper’s uniform, but it fit differently—too neat, the pants slightly too long. The hat was pulled low, but as the figure turned to secure the door, Jessica saw a flash of severe blonde bun, sharp cheekbones.
The woman carried a clipboard, her steps tentative on the soft earth. She didn’t look at Jessica, not directly. Instead, she made a show of checking the water level in the feeding bowls, scribbling notes. Her presence was a wrong note in the Glade’s symphony. Too stiff. The real keepers moved with an efficient, familiar ownership. This one scanned the habitat like a surveyor.
Jessica dropped silently from the branch, landing in a soft crouch. She stayed still, letting the newcomer feel observed. The woman finally looked up, her eyes—a cool, assessing grey—locking with Jessica’s. There was no professional detachment there. There was calculation, and a flicker of something like revulsion.
She walked to the viewing glass, pretending to inspect its seam for leaks. Her back was to the public path. When she spoke, her voice was a low, urgent whisper, meant to carry only to Jessica, who had drifted closer, curious.
“Jessica Bellweather.”
The name, her full name, spoken here, was a shock. It felt like a relic. Jessica didn’t respond. She tilted her head, the way she’d seen the foxes do.
The woman’s lips barely moved. “My name is Evelyn Thorne. I’m a journalist. I know about the NDA, the non-disparagement clause. I know Finch has everyone wrapped in legal silk.” She tapped her clipboard nervously. “But this is wrong. You must see that. It’s a dressed-up cage. They’ve turned you into a… a petting zoo for the idly morbid.”
Jessica felt a slow smile spread across her face. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was something older. She padded right up to the glass, until her toes touched the cool foundation. Evelyn flinched but held her ground.
“They call you ‘the subject,’” Evelyn whispered, her voice gaining heat. “They talk about your ‘enrichment’ and your ‘specimen behavior.’ They’ve erased you. Don’t you want to tell your story? The real one? About the exploitation? The psychological manipulation? I can help you.”
Jessica leaned forward. She placed her palms flat against the glass, then slowly, deliberately, pressed the full length of her body against it. The cool, smooth surface was a shock against her skin. She could see every pore in Evelyn’s suddenly pale face, the subtle tremor in her jaw. Behind Evelyn, on the public path, a child pointed and was quickly hushed.
Evelyn’s breath fogged the glass between them. “Fight back,” she hissed, her journalist’s cool crumbling into desperation.
Jessica turned her head, resting her cheek against the pane, her eyes never leaving Evelyn’s. She saw herself reflected—a wild thing with tangled auburn hair and green eyes that held no trace of the woman Evelyn thought she was rescuing.
“You’re not listening,” Jessica murmured, her voice a low, contented rasp. It wasn’t loud, but it cut through Evelyn’s urgency like a knife. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
She pushed off from the glass and took a step back. Then, holding Evelyn’s horrified gaze, she did what felt utterly natural. A deep, resonant purr vibrated in her chest, rising to a soft, audible rumble in her throat. It was the sound of absolute, feral conviction.
Evelyn stumbled back as if struck. The clipboard clattered to the ground. All her theories, her righteous anger, her narrative of victimhood—it shattered against that simple, animal sound. The person she came to save was not there. Or worse, she was, and she was grinning.
The service door hissed open. Leo stood there, his face like stone. “Ma’am,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual flat instruction. It was cold, final. “Unauthorized personnel are not permitted in the habitats. You need to come with me.”
Evelyn looked from Leo’s impassive face to Jessica, who had now turned her back, stretching her arms towards the dappled sun as if the whole interaction had been a minor distraction. A fly to be flicked away.
“Jessica—” Evelyn choked out.
But Jessica was already walking away, towards the pond and the flamingos. She lowered herself to all fours at the water’s edge, dipping her head to drink. The picture of primal peace.
Leo moved forward, his hand firm on Evelyn’s elbow. She allowed herself to be led, numb, casting one last look over her shoulder. Jessica lifted her head, water streaming from her chin. She didn’t look at the journalist. She looked past her, through the glass, at the gathering visitors, and offered them a slow, deliberate blink.
As the service door sealed shut, cutting off the world, the only thing louder than the pounding of Evelyn’s heart was the gentle, mocking cluck of the pink birds.