See Something, Say Something

At this zoo, the animals remember being free. An American horror story.

Photo by Ayşin

The alarm went off at seven like it always does. I laid there a minute, looking at the ceiling, listening to Holly in the bathroom running the water. She takes a long time in there. I don’t ask why. We don’t ask each other much of nothing these days. That’s what makes it work.

Junie come running in and jumped on the bed, all elbows and knees, that wild hair of hers flying everywhere. “Daddy, daddy, it’s my birthday.” She bounced on the bed, couldn’t hold still, same as she’s been since she was old enough to walk.

“I know it, sweetheart.”

“You said we could go to the zoo. You said I could see the new animals.”

“I did say that.”

Holly come out of the bathroom in her robe, hair up in a towel. She leaned against the doorframe. “Y’all are goin’ to see the new exhibit,” she said.

“She’s been askin’ for weeks. Everybody at school’s talkin’ about it. You could come with us.”

She went to the closet and pulled out clothes, her back to me. “I got the church thing today. Women’s group. We’re doin’ care packages for the troops in Canada.”

“That’s real nice.”

“Pastor Dave says it’s important to support them. They’re doin’ God’s work up there, bringin’ order to them people. You know how they was before we stepped in. All that socialism. All that confusion about what a man is and what a woman is. Pastor Dave says we’re savin’ them from themselves.”

She turned around, holding a blouse with little flowers on it, the one I got her for Christmas. “God Bless America and God Bless Our President.”

“God Bless America and God Bless Our President,” I said back, because that’s what you say.

“You be careful today.”

“At the zoo?”

“Be careful. Don’t talk to nobody you don’t have to talk to. Don’t let Junie wander off. Don’t let her say nothin’ that might–” She stopped herself, pressed her lips together. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

For a second I thought she was gonna say something true, about what we both knew but never talked about. But then Junie jumped off the bed and grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door, and the moment passed, and Holly said breakfast would be ready in ten minutes.

We ate eggs and toast at the kitchen table, Junie talking a mile a minute about her friend Madison, about how Madison’s daddy took her to see the new animals last weekend and she said it was crazy, like so crazy, you wouldn’t even believe it. “Madison said one of them tried to climb the fence,” Junie said, mouth full of eggs. “She said the keepers had to use the sticks on it. The electric ones. She said it screamed real loud and then it laid there twitchin’.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“I’m only sayin’ what Madison said. She said her daddy got the premium experience and they got to feed one of the animals and take a picture with it and everythin’. Can we do that, daddy? Can we get the premium experience? Please? It’s my birthday.”

“We’ll see.”

“But daddy–”

“I said we’ll see.”

The drive took about an hour. We went up route 7 along the river, past the old steel plant that’s been closed since I was in high school, past the Amazon warehouse they built where the drive-in used to be.

We passed the Debtor Village first. That’s what everybody calls it, though the official name is Civic Responsibility Community. It’s where they put people who can’t pay their taxes, make ‘em live in them little pods, no bigger than a garden shed, until they work off what they owe. The pods go on for acres now. They added a whole new section last spring. There was people out in the yard area doing calisthenics, a guard watching them from a tower. Junie didn’t look up from her tablet.

A few miles later we passed the Regional Medical Center. Used to be a regular hospital, back before they privatized everything. Now there’s a big sign out front that says Sponsored Care Only. You can’t get in without a Citizen Sponsor, and the sponsor’s gotta be a verified white national, with a background check, credit check, loyalty score, you know, the whole thing. Holly’s cousin needed her appendix out last year. Took her three weeks to find a sponsor willing to sign the papers. She almost died waiting. The sign under the big one said Current Wait Time for Sponsor Matching: 47 Days. God Bless America.

We passed the billboard with the family on it looking concerned, the one that says See Something, Say Something with a phone number underneath.

They put them billboards up a couple years back. Used to be you’d see one every few miles. Now they’re everywhere, like dandelions, like they sprouted up out of the ground. Every third one has a picture of the president on it, smiling, with the words God Bless America underneath.

Next is the WorkFirst Food Distribution Center. They built it where the old Kroger used to be. It’s where you get your groceries, but only if you can prove forty hours of employment. Gotta bring your pay stubs, your supervisor verification form, your time cards. If you’re short even one hour, they turn you away. There was a woman outside arguing with a guard when we drove past, holding up papers, crying. Her kids was standing behind her, three of ‘em, watching. The guard wasn’t moving, patient, like he’d done this a hundred times before.

Junie looked up from her tablet for that one. Watched the woman crying, watched the kids standing there. Then she looked back down and kept playing her game.

“Daddy,” Junie said, not looking up from her tablet, “what’s Canada?”

“It used to be a country.”

“What is it now?”

“It’s ours. It’s America now. The north part.”

“Oh.” She thought about that for a second. “Madison says her uncle is stationed up there. She says he sends pictures of the mountains. She says it’s real pretty but the people there are ungrateful.”

“Madison says a lot of things.”

The parking lot was full up when we got to the zoo. I hadn’t seen it that way since they brought in them pandas back in ‘19, before everything changed. We had to park way out in the overflow lot by the maintenance building. There was a truck back there with a hose running out of it, and a man in coveralls spraying down the inside of a long white trailer, and I didn’t look too close at what he was spraying off the walls, at the color of the water running out the back and into the drain.

Junie held my hand as we walked to the entrance. She wore her pink shoes, the ones with the lights in the heels that blink every step she takes. I watched them blink and thought about how she was eight years old and didn’t know nothing about nothing, not really, and how I wanted to keep it that way for as long as I could.

The line at the gate stretched all the way back to the parking lot. Families, mostly. Lots of kids. A group in matching yellow shirts with someone at the front holding a little flag so nobody got lost. A couple of church buses from out of state, West Virginia plates, the people climbing off them looking excited, talking loud, taking pictures of the entrance sign. A regular Saturday. A regular day at the zoo.

When we got to the front, the woman in the ticket booth wore a mask shaped like an elephant’s face. They all wear masks now, the employees. Part of the magic, they call it. Keeps the fantasy alive. “Two tickets,” I said. “One adult, one child.”

“Would you like to add the premium experience?” The elephant mask tilted to one side. “It includes a guided tour of the American Wildlife wing, a commemorative photo with one of our docile specimens, and a chance to participate in a feeding.”

“Daddy please.” Junie tugged at my hand, bouncing on her toes. “Please please please. Madison got to do it. It’s my birthday. Please, daddy.”

I looked at her. Looked at the elephant mask. Looked at the price on the sign. Sixty dollars extra for the upgraded experience. That was almost enough money for a quarter tank of gas these days. I hoped Holly might forgive me for wasting it.

“Please, daddy. I’ll be so good.”

The elephant mask waited. The people in line behind us was getting impatient.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay, fine. The premium experience.”

Junie squealed and hugged my leg. The elephant mask clapped its hands together. “Wonderful choice. Your daughter is going to have so much fun. Now, I’ll need to see identification for both of you.”

I handed over my driver’s license and Junie’s school ID. She scanned them into a machine that beeped twice, then beeped a third time, different, higher pitched. The elephant mask tilted, looking at a screen I couldn’t see.

“Sir, it says here you’re a Compliance Caution. Category Three. Sexual Deviant, Registered.”

I looked around, hoping nobody had heard. “That’s…yeah. That’s old. From a few years back. I signed the papers. I did everythin’ I was supposed to do.”

“I’m sure you did, sir. It’s only a flag in the system. Nothing to worry about as long as you follow all posted rules during your visit. You understand that any violations for a Compliance Caution are handled differently than for regular guests?”

“I understand.”

“Wonderful. And I’ll need you to fill out this questionnaire. Won’t take but a minute.”

She handed me a tablet through the window. The form on the screen showed maybe fifteen questions.

Name.
Address.
Employer.
Political Affiliation.
Religious Affiliation.
Reason for Visit.
Have you or any member of your household ever been investigated for Compliance Violations?
Have you or any member of your household ever expressed views critical of government policy in a public forum, online or otherwise?
Have you or any member of your household ever associated with any individual or organization designated as Non-Compliant, Concerning, or Under Review?
Do you consent to monitoring of your location and activities during your visit today for purposes of safety, security, and research?

I checked all the appropriate responses, handed it back.

The machine beeped again, and the elephant mask handed me two tickets with a map stapled to the back and a special lanyard that said Premium Experience in gold letters.

“Your guided tour starts in thirty minutes at the American Wildlife entrance. Look for the docent in the red vest. God Bless America and God Bless Our President. Enjoy your visit, and remember, if you see something, say something!”

The zoo smelled like it always smelled, hay and animal shit and fried food and sweat. Junie didn’t notice. She pulled me toward the map board, pointing at the pictures. “I want to see the penguins and the monkeys and the–” She stopped, her finger landing on a section in the top corner marked in red. American Wildlife. “That’s it, daddy! That’s the new part. That’s where the new animals are. When does our tour start? Can we go now?”

“Thirty minutes. Let’s see some of the other stuff first.”

“But I want to see the new animals.”

“And you will. I promise. Let’s look at the giraffes first, okay? We got time.”

We walked past the reptile house where a school group was pressed against the glass watching a snake eat a mouse, past the petting zoo where a goat was chewing on some kid’s shoelace while his mother tried to pull him away, past the carousel playing the same song over and over, a song I remembered from when I was Junie’s age, when my daddy brought me here, when everything was different.

The giraffes was standing in their enclosure looking bored, chewing leaves, not caring about nothing. I watched them for a while. They had it easy, the giraffes. Nobody expected nothing from them. Nobody was watching what they ate or who they talked to or what they thought about when they laid down at night. They stood there and chewed and didn’t know how good they had it.

Junie tugged my hand. “Daddy, the tour’s gonna start soon.”

“Okay, baby. Let’s go.”

The entrance to the new wing began past the food court, past the gift shop with its stuffed animals and t-shirts and refrigerator magnets. They’d built a whole new building, big and modern, with a sign out front in letters made to look like they was carved from logs. American Wildlife. Underneath was a quote. The Price of Liberty Is Eternal Vigilance.

There was a woman waiting by the entrance in a red vest, holding a clipboard. She wore her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her name tag said Ashley and underneath it said Premium Experience Docent, Certified Educator, 3 Years.

“Well hello there,” she said when we walked up. “You must be our birthday girl. Happy birthday, sweetheart. How old are you today?”

“Eight.”

“Eight years old. What a blessing. And you must be dad.” She glanced at her clipboard. “I see you’ve got the Compliance Caution flag in the system.” She said it casual, like she was commenting on the weather. “Don’t worry, we get lots of those. Make sure you follow all the rules and we won’t have any problems. Now, are you ready for the experience of a lifetime?”

“Yes!” Junie said, bouncing again.

“Then let’s get started. Stay close, don’t touch the glass or cages unless I say it’s okay, and remember, these animals may look like people, but they’re not. They’re defectives. They’re broken. They did bad things and this is the consequence. We keep them here to educate folks like you, to show you what happens when you don’t follow the rules. Does that make sense?”

Junie nodded.

“Good girl. Let’s go.”

Inside the dark, cool hallway, speakers played sounds, birds and wind and distant traffic. Murals covered the walls, depicting paintings of American scenes, mountains and wheat fields and factories with smoke coming out the stacks, and as you walked further the pictures changed, got darker, showed people in lines at checkpoints, showed people being loaded into vans, showed people behind fences looking out.

“These murals were done by a local artist,” Ashley said, walking backwards so she could face us while she talked. “He wanted to show the journey from freedom to consequence. See how the colors get darker as you go? That represents the moral decline. That represents what happens when people turn away from God and country.”

At the end of the hall, before the first exhibit, hung a big painting of Lady Justice. She was holding her scales, but she wasn’t blindfolded like she’s supposed to be. Her eyes was wide open, and they’d painted them so they followed you wherever you went.

The first enclosure had glass on three sides so you could see in from different angles, like a fish tank but bigger. They’d done it up to look like a bus station, with plastic chairs bolted to the floor and a bench with an ad on it for an injury lawyer, one of them that says HURT? CALL KURT! with a phone number that probably didn’t work no more. There was a vending machine against one wall with the lights burnt out behind the snacks.

The animal inside, a female adult with dark hair going gray at the part. It sat in one of the plastic chairs staring at nothing, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with Ohio State on the front. Its feet bare and it wore a plastic bracelet around its ankle, the kind they put on you at the hospital.

Ashley stopped in front of the glass and spread her arms like a game show host showing off a prize. “This is Specimen 447-A. We call it Maria. It’s an Economic Migrant, App-Based Variant. Came up from Guatemala back in ‘24 using one of those phone apps the old administration set up. You remember those apps? Let anybody in who could figure out how to push a button. No vetting, no screening, come on in and take American jobs and use American services. Well, God Bless our president, he put a stop to that nonsense.”

“What happened to its kids?” Junie asked.

“How do you know it had kids?”

Junie pointed at the plaque. “The sign says. Offsprin’ relocated to juvenile facilities.”

“Well, aren’t you a good reader? Yes, this one had two offspring. Anchor babies, we call them. Born on American soil so technically American citizens, but you know what our president says about that. We changed those laws. The offspring are in facilities where they can be properly raised, properly educated. Taught to understand their status and then they will become servants to National born folks.”

“Will they ever see their mama again?”

Ashley squatted down to be eye level with Junie. “Sweetheart, this animal isn’t anybody’s mama. Mamas are people. This is a defective. It made bad choices and now it’s facing consequences. That’s how the world works. That’s how God wants it. Do you understand?”

Junie looked at the animal in the cage, then back at Ashley. “I guess so.”

“Good girl. Now let’s move on. We’ve got lots more to see.”

The next enclosure held a normal living room. There was a couch and a coffee table and a TV on the wall playing static, and a bookshelf full of books with red stickers on the spines labeling them as Contraband. Books I’d read in high school, back when you could read whatever you wanted, back when books was books and not evidence.

This time a heavyset male with a beard paced the enclosure. Back and forth, back and forth, ten steps one way, turn, ten steps back, over and over, its hands clenching and unclenching.

“Specimen 891-C,” Ashley announced. “Common name Frank. Domestic Dissident, Misinformation Variant. This one’s a real piece of work. Worked at a tire plant for thirty years, if you can believe it. Good job, good life, everything handed to it on a silver platter. And what did it do? Shared a video online. A video full of lies about government facilities. Asked questions it had no business asking. Spread doubt and confusion among fourteen thousand people before we caught it.”

The animal stopped pacing. It’d seen us watching. It’d walked right up to the glass, his breath fogging the surface.

“Hey. Hey, can you hear me?”

“Don’t engage with it,” Ashley said, putting her hand on Junie’s shoulder. “This one likes to talk. Thinks if it talks enough, someone will listen. But there’s nothing to listen to. Nothing but lies and noise.”

“I ain’t lyin’,” the animal said. It looked right at me now, eyes red-rimmed. “I asked a question. I saw somethin’ that didn’t look right and I asked if it was true. That’s all. That’s all I did.”

I took a step closer to the enclosure.

“Sir.” Ashley didn’t hesitate. “Please don’t interact with the specimens. It encourages bad behavior.”

“I voted for him,” the animal said. “Both times. I believed everything he said. I went to the rallies. I bought the hats and the coins and the watch and donated every pay like I was told to do. And then I saw somethin’ that didn’t make sense and I asked one question, one, and now–”

It slammed his palm against the glass. Junie jumped. I pulled her back.

“I did everythin’ right,” the animal screamed. “I did everythin’ they told me to do. I reported my neighbors when they said things they shouldn’t. I was a good citizen. I was–”

A door opened at the back of the enclosure. Two handlers came in, one with a pole that had a loop on the end. The one with the pole got the loop around the animal’s neck while the other one hit it with a baton and it made a crackling sound. The animal went down, twitching.

“Sorry about that, folks,” Ashley said, her smile back in place like nothing happened. “This one gets excited sometimes. It’s part of its condition. The handlers will calm it down and it’ll be fine in a few minutes. Now let’s move on.”

The next enclosure took us outdoors. Chain-link fence with barbed wire on top, concrete floor, a drain in the middle. No furniture. No enrichment items. A female sat on the ground with its back against the fence, arms wrapped around its knees.

Seventy, maybe. Thin. Wearing a dress that used to be nice.

The placard read–
Specimen 512-B
Common Name: Patricia
Species: Obstruction of Justice and Harboring
Origin: Athens, Ohio
Acquisition: Operation Heartland Sweep, February 2026
Status: Permanent Display

Notes: This specimen refused to allow federal agents entry to its home during a lawful search. Specimen claimed agents had no warrant. (Warrants not required per National Security Exception, via executive order of the president) Specimen physically blocked doorway. Specimen’s home contained three non-compliant individuals who have since been processed and imprisoned.

The animal looked up as we passed. Its eyes found mine. They was blue, pale blue, like my grandmother’s eyes.

“Excuse me,” it said. “Excuse me, sir. Do you have the time?”

I looked at the sign on the fence. Do Not Interact With Specimens.

I looked at Ashley, but she’d walked ahead with Junie, pointing at something in the next enclosure.

I looked back at the specimen.

“It’s about two-thirty,” I said, quiet.

“Thank you.” It closed its eyes. “I haven’t known what time it is in…I don’t know how long. They don’t have clocks in here. They don’t let us have clocks.”

“Sir.” Ashley, from up ahead. “Please keep up.”

We came to a part of the wing marked Rehabilitation Center. The sign said This Is Where Healing Happens. The lights brighter here, the walls whiter, the smell of chemicals stronger.

“This is my favorite part of the tour,” Ashley said. “This is where we show there’s hope. Even the most broken defective can be fixed, with enough work, with enough faith.”

The enclosure in this section appeared smaller than the others, cleaner. It held a bed with a white blanket tucked in tight, a vanity table with a mirror and makeup arranged in neat rows, a closet standing open to show dresses in pastel colors hanging in a line. A bible rested on the nightstand. On one wall there used to be a rainbow flag, but someone scrubbed it, the colors running together into a muddy smear like someone tried to wash it away.

The animal inside sat at the vanity, putting on lipstick. It wore a pink dress with a full skirt, the kind you’d see at a church picnic, and its hair curled at the ends against its shoulders. Its face was made up careful, foundation and blush and mascara.

“Specimen 662-R,” Ashley said. “Common name Michelle. Gender Deviant, Reformed. This one used to think it was something it wasn’t. Mutilated its body. Took chemicals. Insisted people call it by a fake name. But look at it now. After only thirty months at the Appalachian Restoration Facility, it’s a whole new animal. Cured. Healed. A real woman again, the way God made her.”

Ashley pressed a red button on the side of the enclosure.

A speaker crackled. The animal set down the lipstick and sat up straighter, hands folded in its lap, knees pressed together the way women are supposed to sit.

“Hello friends. My name is Michelle. I was sick. I believed I was something I wasn’t. I rejected the body God gave me. I was confused and broken. But I was saved. Through prayer and treatment and the love of my community, I was healed. I know now that I am a woman. I have learned that women are the weaker vessel, made to be protected and provided for by men. I look forward to finding a husband and bearing his children the way God intended, and to submitting to his leadership as the head of my household. I am grateful to the program for helping me accept my true self. I am grateful to the president for creating the program. I encourage anyone who struggles with similar delusions to turn themselves in. There is hope. There is healing. God Bless America and God Bless Our President.”

The speaker clicked off. The animal stayed sitting straight, hands folded, eyes forward.

I thought about a bar in Columbus I used to go to. It wasn’t much, a room with a bar and some stools and a jukebox that played old country songs. But it was ours. Mine and Brett’s. It was the only place we could go and be ourselves, sit next to a man and not have to pretend, breathe without checking first to make sure nobody was watching.

The bar got raided in the summer of ‘25. I wasn’t there that night. I saw it on the news the next morning, the people being led out in handcuffs, faces blurred, names not given. I saw Brett in handcuffs. I try not to think about what happened to him.

Two weeks after the raid, I got a letter. Official government letterhead. It said I’d been identified as a person of interest based on location data and social connections. It said I had two options. Option A, report to the Appalachian Restoration Facility for a minimum 24-month Intensive Correction Program. Option B, sign a Compliance Agreement.

I went down to the government office the next day. A woman in a gray suit sat me down in a room with no windows and explained what Option B meant. Marriage to an approved partner within six months that would be assigned to me. Production of a biological child within two years. Ongoing monthly monitoring for life to ensure appropriate behavior.

“And one more thing,” she’d said, sliding a paper across the table. “You need to sign this.”

At the top it said Statement of Acknowledgment.

“Read it out loud,” she said. “For the record.”

I read it.

“I hereby acknowledge that I am a sexual deviant. I acknowledge that my desires are unnatural and contrary to God’s law and the laws of the United States of America and our president’s beliefs. I acknowledge that I have chosen to enter the Compliance Program rather than undergo correction, and I understand that this choice makes me a Compliance Caution for the remainder of my natural life. I understand that any violation of my Compliance Agreement will result in immediate transfer to a correction facility with no possibility of release. I make this statement freely and without coercion.”

The woman took the paper back. Smiled. “Welcome to the program.”

That’s how I got Holly. That’s how I got Junie. That’s how I got this life that looks like a life but feels like death.

We walked through more exhibits until we came to the main one, the biggest enclosure in the whole wing. A crowd already gathered around, people pressed against the glass three deep, kids on their fathers’ shoulders trying to see.

“This is the one everybody comes for,” Ashley said, leading us to a special viewing area marked Premium Guests Only. “This is our star attraction.”

It was a backyard. Real grass, or fake grass that looked real. A patio area with a grill and chairs and a table like you’d have at your house. There was a pool, the above-ground kind, and a swing set, and a TV mounted on a post playing the news with the sound off. There was books scattered around, their pages swole up and warped from water. There was a clothesline with laundry on it, shirts and pants and a dress that looked familiar, like something Holly would wear.

The animal inside was male. It had on a t-shirt from Cedar Point, the one with all the roller coasters on it.

I had the same shirt in my closet at home.

“Specimen 223-P,” Ashley announced. “Common name Gary. Compliance Failure, Complex Type. This one’s got a lot of marks against it. Failed to accurately complete its Compliance Attestation form. Was a member of an online group that’s since been designated as Concerning. But the really interesting thing about this one, it was a teacher. Middle school. And it used that position to corrupt young minds. Told students to question authority. Told students to think for themselves. Even counseled a student who was confused about its identity, told the student that confusion was normal, that it was okay.”

She shook her head.

“Can you imagine? A teacher, someone we trust with our children, telling them it’s okay to be confused. Telling them to question things. This animal created defectives. Some of its former students are in facilities themselves now because of what it taught them.”

A voice come over the loudspeaker. “Attention, guests. Specimen cleaning demonstration beginning in five minutes at Exhibit 12. Come watch our trained specialists perform routine maintenance on one of our most popular specimens. Educational and entertaining for the whole family!”

“Oh, perfect timing,” Ashley said, clapping her hands together. “This is Gary’s cleaning. You’re going to love this.”

The crowd around the enclosure got bigger. People pushed to get a better view. Kids sitting on their daddies’ shoulders. Others bought popcorn from a cart.

A door opened at the back of the enclosure. Two keepers came out. One a big guy with a buzz cut and arms like tree trunks. His name tag said Chuck. The other a woman with red hair in a braid and freckles across her nose. Her name tag said Brittany.

Brittany pulled a cart with a big industrial hose coiled on it, the kind they use to wash down sidewalks. Chuck carried a bucket full of brushes and bottles of something blue.

“Good afternoon, everybody!” Brittany called out, waving at the crowd. “Thanks for coming to our two o’clock demonstration. How many of you are visiting for the first time?”

Hands went up all over. Brittany clapped her hands together.

“That’s wonderful. You’re going to learn so much today. Now, this is Gary. Gary’s been with us for about eight months now. It’s one of our more challenging specimens. Aren’t you, Gary?”

The animal didn’t respond.

“Gary doesn’t like to cooperate sometimes. It gets ideas in its head. Thinks it’s still got rights, thinks the rules don’t apply to it. That’s what got it in here in the first place, isn’t it, Gary? Thinking you were special. Thinking you could do whatever you wanted.”

Chuck connected the hose to a spigot on the wall and tested the pressure. A hard jet of water shot across the concrete.

“The cleaning demonstration serves two purposes,” Brittany continued, bright and cheerful. “First, it maintains hygiene standards. These animals can get pretty ripe if you don’t stay on top of it.” She laughed. “And you folks don’t want to smell that, do you?” A chorus of no’s came from the crowd. “Second, and more importantly, it reinforces the hierarchy. It reminds them who’s in charge. It reminds them what they are.”

The animal stood up from the table. “You don’t have to do this,” it said. “Please. There’s people watching. There’s kids.”

“There are kids,” Brittany corrected him, still smiling. “Grammar, Gary. You were a teacher. You should know better.”

“Please.”

“Now, the first thing we do is get them into position.” She pulled something from her belt, a small black device. “Gary, you know what happens if you don’t cooperate. We’ve talked about this. Do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

The animal looked at the device in her hand. It looked at the crowd watching him. It looked at Junie, standing next to me, her eyes wide. And then it screamed when Brittany pushed a button on the device.

Its hands jerked to the collar around its neck and we watched it shock it two more times before it walked to the center of the enclosure and stood there with its arms at his sides.

“Good specimen.” Brittany put the device away. “See, it’s learning. It takes time and consistency. Like training any animal.”

She nodded at Chuck. Chuck turned the hose on the animal.

The water hit the animal hard, harder than I expected, knocking it back a step. It put his arms up to protect its face but it didn’t help, the jet too strong, pushing it across the concrete, soaking it instantly. The Cedar Point shirt went dark with water, plastered to its body.

Chuck sprayed it from head to toe, front and back. The animal tried to stay on its feet but couldn’t, the pressure too much, and it went down on its knees, then on its hands and knees, then flat on its stomach with the water pounding into its back.

“Now, you’ll notice it’s not fighting anymore,” Brittany said, narrating like it was a nature documentary. “That’s a good sign. When we first got it, the animal fought the whole time. Took three handlers to get it cleaned. But it’s learned. They all learn eventually.”

The animal made sounds now. Not screaming, exactly. More like gasping, choking, trying to breathe through the water. Its fingers clawed the concrete, tried to find something to hold onto.

The crowd recorded on their phones, laughing. A kid near me cheered every time the spray knocked the animal down again. His mother smiled, holding up her phone to get a better angle.

Chuck sprayed for another minute, maybe two. Then Brittany held up her hand and he turned off the hose.

The animal lay there on the concrete, not moving.

“Now we move to phase two,” Brittany announced. “Sanitation.”

Chuck set down the hose and picked up the bucket. He pulled out a long-handled brush, the kind you’d use to scrub a floor, and one of the bottles of blue liquid. He squeezed the liquid onto the brush.

“Up,” Chuck said.

The animal didn’t move.

Chuck kicked him in the ribs. Not hard enough to break nothing, but hard enough to make a point. All the kids laughed. “I said up.”

The animal pushed onto its hands and knees. Chuck scrubbed it with the brush, hard strokes across its back, arms and legs. The blue liquid foamed up white where it touched skin. The animal flinched, tried to pull away.

“Stay still,” Chuck said, and kept scrubbing.

“The sanitation solution is specially formulated,” Brittany explained to the crowd. “It eliminates bacteria, parasites, and odor. It can cause some mild skin irritation, but that’s a small price to pay for good hygiene.”

The animal’s skin turned red where the brush scrubbed. It made small sounds now, whimpering sounds, like a dog that’s been hit too many times. Chuck scrubbed the face and neck, behind the ears. The animal squeezed its eyes shut and took it.

When Chuck was done, he dropped the brush back in the bucket and picked up the hose again. One more blast of water to rinse off the foam, and then it was over.

“Now,” Ashley said, clappin’ her hands together. “Who wants to do the feeding?”

Junie’s hand shot up. “Me, me!”

“Birthday girl gets first dibs. Come on, sweetheart.”

Ashley led us to a door at the side of the enclosure. She punched a code into a keypad and the door clicked open. We went through into a small room with another door on the other side, like an airlock.

“The feeding is done through a slot in the wall,” Ashley explained. “You never go inside the enclosure itself. That would be dangerous. These animals may look harmless but they can be unpredictable.”

She handed Junie a bowl of something that looked like oatmeal, gray and lumpy.

“What is it?” Junie asked.

“Nutrient paste. It’s got everything the animal needs to survive. Vitamins, minerals, protein. It doesn’t taste like much but they’re not here for the taste, are they?” She laughed. “Go ahead. Put it through the slot. The animal will come get it.”

Junie walked to the small door at about waist height. She opened it and slid the bowl through.

“Go on,” Ashley called out, loud enough for the animal to hear. “Go get your food. Don’t be shy. Show our guests how grateful you are.”

The animal pushed itself up. It picked up the bowl and looked at it, then looked at the slot, at the faces watching through it.

Then looked right at Junie.

“Thank you,” it said.

Junie didn’t say nothing, like the rules said.

“Go on,” Ashley said. “You can talk to it if you want. Only this once, since it’s your birthday.”

“You’re welcome,” Junie said.

The animal tried to smile. “How old are you?”

“Eight. It’s my birthday.”

“Eight.” It closed its eyes for a second. “I had a daughter. She was eight when they took me. Her name was Emma.”

“That’s enough. Specimen, return to your designated area.”

“She used to like the zoo,” the animal said, not moving. “I used to bring her here, before. Before all this. She liked the giraffes.”

“I like the giraffes too,” Junie said.

“Junie.” I grabbed her shoulder, pulled her back. “That’s enough, honey.”

“I want her to know. I was a teacher. I helped kids. I had a family. I had a life. I’m not an animal. I’m not–”

Ashley pressed something on her belt. An alarm blared. The slot in the wall slammed shut automatically.

“Sorry about that, folks,” Ashley said, her smile back in place. “This one gets emotional sometimes. It’s part of its condition. Let’s get you that commemorative photo and then we’ll wrap up the tour.”

They took us to a photo area near the exit with a backdrop painted to look like the American Wildlife enclosures. A man in a handler’s uniform brought out an animal on a leash, an old woman with white hair wearing a jumpsuit with a number on it. They positioned her next to Junie and told us to smile.

“Say God Bless America,” the photographer said.

“God Bless America,” we repeated.

They gave us the photo in a cardboard frame decorated with stars and stripes.

“Thank you for choosing the premium experience,” Ashley said, handing me a comment card. “Please rate your visit and let us know how we can improve. And remember, if you see something, say something!”

We walked out through the gift shop. They had stuffed animals and t-shirts and coffee mugs that said I Survived the American Wildlife Exhibit with a cartoon picture of a person behind bars, smiling. They had plush dolls of the specimens, little figures in orange jumpsuits with numbers on them. They had a children’s book called Donnie the Defective Learns His Lesson.

Junie wanted the book and the t-shirt. I got her both.

“Daddy,” she said as I started the car.

“Yeah, baby.”

“Are we animals?”

I glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“What do you mean?”

“The people in the cages. They looked like us. They looked like people. But everybody called them animals. So are we animals too? Could we be in cages?”

“No, baby,” I said. “We’re not animals. We’re people. We’re good people. And good people follow the rules and stay safe and don’t end up in cages.”

“But what if we break a rule by accident? What if we don’t know we’re breakin’ it?”

I didn’t have an answer for that. I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

We drove home the long way. Junie fell asleep in the back seat, her mouth hanging open a little.

Holly’d made meatloaf, Junie’s favorite.

“How was it,” she said.

“Educational. Real educational.”

She nodded. Didn’t ask nothing else. She never does.

We had dinner. We had cake. We sang happy birthday and Junie blew out her candles and made a wish.

At bedtime, I tucked her in.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby.”

“The man in the cage. Gary. He said he was a teacher.”

“I know.”

“He said he had a daughter.”

“I know.”

“Is she in a cage too?”

“I don’t know, honey. I don’t know where she is.”

“I hope she’s not in a cage.”

“Me too, baby.”

“Okay, g’night.”

“Okay. Good night.”

I kissed her forehead and turned off the light and went downstairs.

Holly sat in the living room, watching the news. They was showing footage from Toronto, soldiers in the streets, a building on fire, people running. The ticker at the bottom of the screen said Canadian Liberation, Day 287.

“She okay?” Holly asked without looking away from the screen.

“She’s okay. She’s tough.”

“She shouldn’t have to be tough. She’s eight years old.”

“I know.”

We sat there for a while, not talking, watching the news. After Holly went to bed, I sat there alone in the dark, thinking about cages, thinking about all the ways my life was held together by lies.

Around eleven, I got up to get a glass of water. I stood at the kitchen sink, looking out the window at the dark backyard, at the swing set we’d put up for Junie’s fifth birthday, at the flag on the pole I put up every morning and took down every night because that’s what you do, that’s what good citizens do.

That’s when I heard the cars.

Two of them, pulling into the driveway. Black SUVs with government plates. Headlights cutting through the dark like searchlights.

I stood there frozen, the glass of water in my hand, watching as the doors opened and men got out. Four of them in uniforms. They walked up the front path in formation, their boots loud on the concrete.

The doorbell rang.

Holly come running down the stairs, her robe half-tied. “What is it? What’s happenin’?”

“I don’t know. Stay here. Stay with Junie.”

I went to the door. I told myself it was nothing, it was a mistake, they had the wrong house. I told myself I hadn’t done nothing wrong. I told myself I was a good citizen.

I opened the door.

The giant man in front, with a face carved from stone and built like a linebacker smiled. His uniform said Military Police and his name tag said Sully. Behind him, the other three stood with their hands on their belts, near their weapons.

“Are you–” Sully glanced at a tablet in his hand. “Are you the resident of this address?”

“Yes sir. Can I help you with somethin’?”

“Sir, we’ve received a report that you violated Code 47-B today at the Columbus Municipal Zoo. Interaction with detained specimens. Multiple witnesses reported your behavior. Do you have anything to say about that?”

I licked my lips. “I didn’t–I mean, there was a moment, but I didn’t–it was my daughter’s birthday. She was doin’ the feedin’. The animal talked to her. I–”

“Sir, the report indicates that you spoke to a specimen designated 512-B. That you told it the time of day when it asked. Is this accurate?”

“Sir, I–I didn’t think–there was a sign, I know, but she asked–”

“Sir, I need a yes or no answer. Did you interact verbally with any detained specimens during your visit today?”

“Yes,” I said. “But it was–”

“Sir, I’m placing you under arrest for violation of Code 47-B, Unauthorized Interaction with Detained Specimens. Due to your status as a Compliance Caution, Category Three, Sexual Deviant, Registered, this violation triggers automatic escalation protocols.”

“Wait.” I held up my hands. “Wait, no, it’s three strikes. That’s what they told me when I signed the papers. I get three strikes before–”

“Sir, the strike policy was revised last week by executive order of the president. For Compliance Caution categories three and above, it’s now one strike and immediate processing.” He looked at his tablet again. “You were notified of this change via your Citizen Portal account.”

“I don’t–I didn’t see–nobody told me–”

“Sir, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“Please. Please, I got a daughter. She’s eight. It’s her birthday. I didn’t do nothin’. I told an old woman what time it was. Please.”

“Your daughter will be fine. Better off, probably, without a deviant in the house.” Sully chuckled. “But hey, look on the bright side. The facility’s got a good program. If you’re really good–I mean really, really good–maybe in a few years you can work your way up.”

“Work my way up to what?”

“A zoo exhibit,” he said. “Lots of your kind end up there eventually. The ones that survive the program, anyway. It’s like a promotion. Get to live in a nice enclosure instead of a cell. Get three meals a day. Fresh air. All you gotta do is let people stare at you and take pictures.”

The other officers laughed.

“Better than the alternative,” one of them said.

“No. Please, let me say goodbye to her. Let me–”

“Report the specimen is resisting,” Sully said, his voice flat, bored.

“I’m not–I’m not resistin’, I want to see my daughter, I–”

“He’s resisting again,” one of the other officers said. “You all saw that, right?”

“I saw it,” another one said.

“I’m not resistin’! I’m not doin’ nothin’, I’m standin’ here, I want to say goodbye–”

The shock hit me before I heard the crackling sound. Every muscle in my body seized up at once. My legs went out from under me and I hit the ground hard, my face against the concrete of my own front walkway, the walkway I’d poured myself three summers ago, the walkway Junie draws on with chalk.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Gasping, I lay there twitching, the same way the animal in the living room enclosure twitched, the same way Gary twitched when they used the prod on him.

Sully squatted down next to me. His face filled my vision.

“Well,” he said. “That’s unfortunate. Resisting arrest. That’s a serious charge. That upgrades you from standard processing to violent offender status.” He pulled out his tablet, tapped something on the screen. “Violent offenders are denied visitor privileges. Permanently. That means no family contact. No letters, no calls, no visits. Ever.” He smiled again. “Your little girl won’t be coming to see you at the zoo after all. She won’t be coming to see you anywhere.”

They grabbed me under the arms and dragged me toward the SUV. I couldn’t make my legs work. I couldn’t make anything work. I hung between them, my feet scraping against the ground.

“Daddy?”

I turned my head. Junie stood at the top of the stairs in her pajamas, the ones with the little stars on them, her face white. Her eyes was huge.

“Daddy, what’s happenin’?”

I tried to say something. Tried to tell her I loved her. Tried to tell her to be good, to follow the rules, to not ask questions. But my mouth wouldn’t work. I tried to memorize her face, tried to hold onto it for whatever came next.

They threw me into the back of the SUV. The door slammed shut.

The SUV turned onto the main road. Sully in the passenger seat, poking at his tablet.

“Processing facility is half an hour,” the driver said. “You want to do intake paperwork on the way?”

“Yeah. I’ll start a new file.” Sully tapped at his tablet. “Specimen number, let’s see, 19,890,247-VO. Violent offender status confirmed. No visitor privileges. Common name…” He looked back at me through the mesh divider. “What’s your name again?”

Through the tinted window I saw a flag on somebody’s porch snap in the wind.

Red and White and Blue.

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Thanks for reading!

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