Chapter 3 — Fences and Fault Lines

Harper

The morning air carried the soft chill of early autumn, the zoo stirring under a pale, amber sky. Harper tugged at the edges of her bandana—a cheerful giraffe print that clashed with the worried crease in her brow. She’d spent most of the night replaying yesterday’s events in her mind: the red panda’s escape, the frantic search, and Dr. Calloway’s imposing yet captivating presence. Now, as she stood just outside the staff break room, clutching a steaming paper cup of coffee, doubt gnawed at her like a persistent itch. Her fingers fidgeted with the fabric of her bandana, the faint initials embroidered in one corner an ache she hadn’t yet learned to quiet.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing like that,” Noah teased, leaning casually against the doorframe. His zookeeper uniform hung slightly askew, and his curly black hair peeked out from beneath a crooked cap. His easy grin was as warm as the coffee Harper held but did little to settle her nerves.

“I can’t stop thinking about the fence,” Harper admitted, pausing mid-step. “I saw the gap. I should’ve said something.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up,” Noah replied, his tone light but sincere. “Stuff happens. Besides, nobody actually thinks it’s your fault. You spotted the red panda before anyone else—that’s got to count for something, right?”

Harper managed a small nod, but the weight of her own perceived failure was hard to shake. She sipped her coffee, the warmth doing little to loosen the knot in her stomach. “What if they don’t want me here? What if Dr. Calloway thinks I’m just... in the way?”

Noah snorted. “Ethan Calloway thinks everyone’s in the way. Don’t take it personally.” He straightened, his expression softening as his voice dropped to something kinder. “You’re doing fine, Harper. Just stick with it. The animals don’t care if you’re perfect—they just care that you’re here.”

Harper smiled despite herself. Noah had a way of cutting through her insecurities with an ease she envied. “Thanks,” she said quietly, though the doubt still lingered. Her fingers traced the edge of her bandana again, finding some small comfort in its familiarity.

A sharp whistle sliced through the morning air, and both turned toward the sound. Ethan stood a few yards away, his utility vest already dusted with the earthy signs of the day’s work. His hands rested on his hips, and though his step carried a faint limp, his presence was no less commanding.

“Harper,” he said, his tone as measured as always. “I need you to shadow me today. We’re doing a follow-up on the cheetah.”

Harper blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, um, of course. I’d love to help.”

“This isn’t about helping,” Ethan replied, his hazel eyes steady but unreadable. “It’s about learning. Stay close, ask questions if you need to, but don’t interfere.”

Harper nodded quickly, her heart hammering. “Got it.”

Noah gave her a thumbs-up as she followed Ethan down the winding path toward the veterinary clinic. The zoo was waking around them—birds chirped in the trees, and the distant hum of visitors seeped into the air. Harper’s gaze darted to Ethan’s stride, catching the subtle hitch in his step and the faint scar that cut across his cheek. She wondered what it must have taken for him to carry himself with such quiet authority despite the visible remnants of whatever he’d endured. The path curved past the Central Lagoon, its calm waters reflecting the morning light. Harper noted the willow branches swaying gently, their serenity a stark contrast to her own churning nerves.

The cheetah was already sedated when they arrived, its sleek, spotted body stretched out on the examination table. The clinic smelled sharply of antiseptic, mingling with the faint musk of animals. Fluorescent lights painted everything in a sterile glow, yet the room buzzed with life—machines humming softly, the rustle of papers, and the rhythmic scratch of Ethan’s gloves as he adjusted the cheetah’s position.

“Tell me what you see,” Ethan said without looking up, his voice calm but firm.

Harper hesitated, stepping closer to the table. She studied the cheetah’s leg, noting the way the bandage wrapped snugly around the wound. “The swelling’s gone down,” she ventured. “And the stitches look intact.”

“Good,” Ethan said, nodding slightly. “What else?”

Harper frowned, leaning in to inspect the cheetah more closely. “Its breathing seems steady. Normal, I think?”

Ethan glanced at her, and for a moment, a flicker of something—approval?—crossed his face. “Not bad. The sedation helps, but monitoring respiratory patterns is critical, especially with animals prone to stress.” He returned his attention to the cheetah, his movements precise and deliberate. “You’ve got a good eye, but observation is only half the job. Interpretation is the other half. Always ask yourself what the signs mean. Why is the swelling down? What does steady breathing tell you about its recovery?”

Harper nodded, feeling a flicker of pride despite her nerves. She watched as Ethan adjusted the cheetah’s position, his scarred hands moving with a confidence that spoke of years of experience. There was a quiet intensity to him, a focus that made the rest of the world seem to fade away.

“Why did you use those stitches instead of dissolvable ones?” Harper asked suddenly, the question tumbling from her mouth before she could second-guess it.

Ethan paused, as though weighing whether to answer. “Dissolvable stitches can weaken under stress. With a cheetah, every muscle movement matters. These hold better during physical activity, ensuring the wound heals properly. Good question.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Thanks.”

As the procedure continued, Harper felt her initial apprehension melt into curiosity. She asked more questions—about the cheetah’s recovery, about the techniques Ethan used—and was surprised by how patiently he answered. His tone remained reserved, but beneath it, she glimpsed a warmth, a passion for his work that he rarely let show.

By the time they finished, the cheetah was resting peacefully in the recovery yard, its breathing slow and steady. Harper stepped outside, the crisp air a welcome relief after the clinic’s sterile confines. She glanced at the yard, where the cheetah lay beneath a shaded canopy, the space calm and secure.

“You did well today,” Ethan said finally, his voice quiet.

Harper turned to him, startled. “Really?”

Ethan nodded, his expression softening just enough to catch her off guard. “You’ve got potential. Don’t waste it.”

Before Harper could respond, a familiar, gruff voice cut through the moment.

“More hands-on training for the volunteers, I see,” Victor Hargrove said, his tone laced with sarcasm. The older man stood a few feet away, his weathered face twisted into a bitter smirk. His fingers toyed with the edge of a battered notebook tucked under his arm, his knuckles white as though gripping it too tightly. “Guess we’re lowering the bar these days.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Victor,” he said evenly. “Is there something you need?”

Victor shrugged, his gaze flicking toward Harper. “Just making an observation. Seems like we’re more focused on playing teacher than running a proper zoo. Back in the day, we didn’t need all this coddling.”

Harper’s hands clenched at her sides, anger surging through her. But Ethan remained composed.

“We’re focused on doing what’s best for the animals,” he said calmly. “If you have concerns, I suggest you bring them to the proper channels.”

Victor’s smirk widened, but he didn’t push further. “Of course. Just trying to help.” He turned and walked away, his notebook pressed tightly to his chest, leaving a palpable tension in his wake.

Harper exhaled slowly, unclenching her fists. “What’s his problem?”

Ethan shook his head. “Victor’s... complicated. He’s been here a long time. Seen a lot of changes he doesn’t agree with.”

“That doesn’t give him the right to be a jerk,” Harper muttered.

Ethan glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “No, it doesn’t. But some battles aren’t worth fighting.”

As they returned to the break room, Harper couldn’t shake the feeling that Victor’s bitterness ran deeper than frustration, that there was more to his hostility than met the eye. She thought of his notebook, the way his fingers had gripped it tightly, as though guarding something.

The day wore on, and Harper found herself reflecting on Ethan’s advice—to observe, to interpret, to ask questions. She was beginning to see the zoo not just as a place of wonder but as a complex, living system, one that required patience and understanding to truly appreciate.

And as she watched Ethan from across the room, his guarded demeanor softening ever so slightly as he spoke with Noah, she realized she wasn’t the only one learning how to find her place in it.