Endangered by Eliot Schrefer

because the waitress knew to bring me club soda after club soda. All I could think of now was the almost bitter taste of the bubbles popping against my tongue, the crunch and numb swallow of ice cubes, condensation accumulating on textured plastic until it dripped.
    And if I was thirsty, I couldn’t imagine what Otto felt, used as he was to getting milk every couple hours. Remembering that there was a pond in the center of the enclosure, I headed out, encircling Otto with my unwounded arm.
    Once we reached the pond, Otto sprang from my arms and scampered to the edge, cupping water in his hand and gulping greedily. The water looked awful and murky and the very embodiment of disease, but once it was cupped in my hand gave the impression of overbrewed tea. I took a sip. It tasted earthy. I took another sip, and was soon drinking mouthful after mouthful. Our thirst satisfied, Otto and I lay back in the grass.
    Though the sanctuary staff had worked hard to keep the bonobos healthy, I didn’t like the idea of drinking from the same source as they did. There were loads of waterborne diseases in Congo, and a thousand different paths that all led to the same destination: diarrhea. It was how most of the kids who died here ultimately went. I’d grown up boiling even the water I used to brush my teeth. If I’d had iodine, I’d have used that to purify it. But I didn’t, and letting Otto and me get dehydrated was no alternative.
    Now that our thirst was taken care of, there was food to worry about. Those green shoots weren’t going to cut it, not if I couldn’t even peel them open.
    The bonobos in the enclosure spent their days foraging, but it was more out of habit than for sustenance; their main source of food was the massive mound of fruit my mom’s staff bought from the local market and piled into the enclosure each morning. But the staff was probably dead or gone, and the village farmers were definitely dead or gone, so there would be no more food delivery.
    My hunger was getting sharp.
    My mind went to the duffel I’d packed for the UN flight that I’d thrown to slow down the peacekeepers. Figuring I couldn’t expect Coke and peanuts on a refugee flight, I’d packed my last American granola bars, a liter of spring water, some powdered milk in case by chance they had let me bring Otto, a bunch of clothes, contact lenses, some pink girly razors, sleeping pills for the flight, American tampons and Congolese pads, and I forgot what else.
    To eat, I had to get that bag back.
    But it was on the other side of the fence.

Two in the nursery. Two by the shed. Four on the main steps.
    Those were the soldiers.
    One in the nursery. Seven by the shed. Two on the main steps.
    Those were the bodies.
    Mama Brunelle was closest, legs splayed, her corpse sprawled halfway into a ditch. I couldn’t tell from here whether she still had a head, but judging from the amount of blood staining the ground around her throat I thought not. Don’t flip , I told myself. I couldn’t panic now, couldn’t yell or make a sudden move.
    I calmed myself by focusing on Otto. I kept him under my shirt, so he was both blinded and close to my body. I couldn’t leave him behind, but also didn’t want him to see what had happened out there.
    The rebels had dragged the couch from my mom’s office onto the back lawn, soda bottles and bits of paper and food scraps strewn around it. One of them, a kid who couldn’t be much more than ten, was wearing a sanctuary gardener’s uniform, the sleeves rolled up so they didn’t swallow his arms. He was smoking with two other soldiers on the steps. Another, wearing a string of bullets over a bare chest, paced nearby.
    They all had machetes. Two of them also had rusty automatic rifles dangling by shoulder straps of fraying twine.
    Hidden behind foliage, I watched for a while. The soldiers didn’t move much or even talk. They smoked and drank and