Following Ezra by Tom Fields-Meyer

like movie theaters and restaurants, so he certainly isn’t going to learn that among the Sunday throngs crowding the paved paths of the L.A. Zoo. Ezra has developed a particular affection for otters and lemurs, both species that seem to share his playful and gentle nature. Seeing the otters so excites him that on some visits he stands at their enclosure literally bouncing on his toes with glee and excitedly reciting one factoid after another for every passerby to hear: “Those are otters! Otters are mammals! They’re in the same family as weasels, badgers, and skunks! My favorite kind is the North American river otter and also the sea otter!” He seems more delighted with each new detail, and other visitors must wonder whether perhaps this little boy works here in some capacity. “They’re carnivores! They like to eat fish! They’re very playful!” I have heard this litany over and over, though sometimes he surprises me by adding a new piece of information: “Otters live on every continent except Australia and Antarctica!”
    One afternoon when he is eleven he’s watching the sifaka lemurs, pacing and hopping in his orange fleece jacket as he mimics the movements of the animals bouncing inside the cage. “I love these guys!” he squeals. “They’re soooooo cuuuute .” Other visitors come and go: moms pushing strollers, a den of Cub Scouts. Occasionally I catch a couple of them exchanging looks, as if to say, “What’s wrong with that kid?”
    Once self-conscious and worried, I have learned from Ezra to ignore those glances. Like Ezra, I leave my troubles and concerns at the zoo gate, letting go of worries about money or work and losing myself in the animals and our shared moments.
    As much as I cherish that link, I do sometimes wonder whether Ezra might ever find another child with whom to share the experience, a friend to make his existence that much less solitary. One Sunday when Ezra is ten, Shawn has joined us at the zoo when a woman about my age approaches us.
    “I think my son knows your son from school,” she says.
    Ezra does recognize the boy, an awkward ten-year-old who, it turns out, shares his passion for animals and the zoo. The boy is carrying a digital camera, and shows us how he likes to catalog the animals, stopping at each exhibit to photograph the informational sign, then the animals inside. His mother explains to us how he prints the photos and assembles them into albums he likes to flip through at home.
    Shawn suggests we walk together, and I feel excited at the idea that Ezra can reach out to a schoolmate and bond over their mutual enthusiasm for wildlife. I imagine playdates at the zoo, hours to be spent musing over the boy’s photo albums and Ezra’s big book. But the two boys just trudge on, taking note of the dromedaries and gray wolves, but oblivious to each other. I am disappointed, but then I look at Ezra, who is unfazed, eager to get to the zebras.
    Occasionally the zoo affords us sublime moments I couldn’t have experienced anywhere else or with anyone else. One chilly, misty afternoon when Ezra is eight, he notices that a new exhibit that has been under construction has finally opened. As we get close, Ezra leads me to a side of the enclosure where the floor of the cage is at about his eye level. We are the only visitors nearby, and Ezra quickly spots the animal inside: a young snow leopard—gorgeous, white with black spots—pacing back and forth inside the cage. Ezra squeezes his cheek up to the metal enclosure, tracing the leopard’s steps with his eyes.
    “Listen,” I tell him.
    We are so close, and the place is so quiet, that I can hear the leopard rhythmically inhaling and exhaling.
    “He’s breathing!” Ezra says.
    As the leopard paces, Ezra lines up his body with the animal’s, mimicking its steps, pacing back and forth, again and again. The air is cool and I see the vapor from the leopard’s breath.
    “What’s that?” Ezra asks. “What’s coming out