Then she leaned forward.
« Jack. Look. »
At the far end of the dwelling, Samson stood near another window, looking towards an empty passageway.
My old window.
The one where I used to finish my notes.
I tightened my crutches.
« Can we go this way? »
« Yes. Slowly. »
The corridor seemed longer than I remembered. Halfway through, I had to sit down again.
Lily went ahead to check.
When she returned, her face was cautious.
« He is lying under the shelter. »
« Near my window? »
« Yes. But he’s resting there most mornings this week. »
I fixed the ground.
Of course.
I had followed him because I wanted his trip to have some meaning. Perhaps he was simply tired.
We have finally reached the bend in the corridor.
Samson was lying in the shadows. He glanced towards us, then lowered his head.
Lily placed the chair near the window.
I sat down without calling him.
For a long time, nothing happened.
Then he straightened up and turned towards the passageway.
My hands went still.
Samson advanced to the edge of the shadow — and stopped, facing me, while I waited to see if he would move away a second time.
He stayed there long enough for my breathing to become uncomfortable.
I let her out slowly.
Samson looked towards the other side of the habitat, where one of the young gorillas was moving around in the climbing structure.
Then he looked back towards the window.
I kept my hands on my thighs.
Lily was standing a little behind me, quiet enough that I could hear the building’s ventilation.
Samson took a step.
Then another one.
He advanced unhurriedly, following the worn strip along the shelter. When he reached the window, he paused and brought his face closer.
I could see the wrinkles around her eyes.
The pale mark near her forehead.
Details that I had known for years and that I no longer really expected to see again.
His gaze swept across the passageway.
I wondered if he was looking at the crutches, Lily, his reflection, or me.
I didn’t have to decide.
He let himself get down to the floor near my chair.
Then he shifted his weight onto one arm, in the same position I remembered from all those mornings of yesteryear.
I covered my mouth.
The first sob escaped despite myself.
Lily touched my shoulder lightly, and I shook my head — not to send her away, but because I couldn’t speak.
Eleven months of standing on my own two feet had not prepared me for the slightest bit of sweetness.
At the hospital, I had learned how to answer questions.
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