Farrah was a wispy-haired blonde with a slight frame, but she had a way with the construction workers who were building the new enclosure. The macaques prompted some men to regress by grunting and scratching under their arms like apes, but she could manage the odd stray visitor with a “hey, dude,” and that was that. Chastised by the babysitter, they would sheepishly turn around and head back to work.

I spent an easy morning in communion with the monkeys, and while keeping an eye out for wandering plumbers, I also kept watch for Sari. Most of the macaques seemed wary of the activity and were more vocal than normal. Farrah knew all of their names, and when I asked for tips, she tried to teach me to recognize the differences in coloring, gait, and facial features.

“My favorite is Stella, that one with the rag doll, being a good mommy all the time. I like it when she bosses the other monkeys around.” A pained look crossed Farrah’s face. “I wonder how many babies they made her have?”

“You mean the breeders?”

“It’s so terrible. Atlas is essential for the rescued mamas.” She twisted the corner of her Fountain of Youth shirt and tied it into a knot at her hip. “Even so, we think we are saving them, but it’s really the macaques who are saving us. Wouldn’t you do anything for them?”

“I love them, I do. Stella is one of my favorites, too. And that little gray one. He never gets his share of food, but Bee makes sure he gets the leftovers.”

“Oh, that’s Ghost. He’s a senior citizen. Isn’t he gorgeous? He comes to me in my dreams sometimes.”

Farrah was right about the breeders. It was incomprehensible that people would abuse these creatures with their hairless faces and soulful eyes. Ghost ran his hands across the fencing near us, fingers strumming the wire like a guitar.

After Farrah left, Mischa arrived to take her spot on the bench, wearing the Daytona uniform of a black concert tee and impossibly small shorts.

“Monkey see, monkey do,” one man said as he passed, pantomiming a dancing chimpanzee. From the benches, Mischa hissed; he cowered.

Unlike Farrah, Mischa didn’t want to chat about monkeys, even when I asked her to describe her favorite ones. Instead, she wanted to grill me about my emotions and spiritual development. Did I feel the presence of gods and goddesses when I sat with the macaques? Did I have a good relationship with my own spirit guides? Was my evolution rapidly advancing because I lived at Atlas? How long had I known Sari?

Mischa also had a lot of thoughts about what I should be thinking about, including about the power of the sun.

“Of course, Sari knows best for the macaques, but I’m surprised by how often they choose to sit in the shade. The sun is so important to me. Without it, we would literally die. When it is gone one day, we will.” She swooned and closed her eyes. “I did almost die once, in the hospital and rehab center, because I couldn’t get them to give me daily sunlight in enough quantity to heal. I had to escape so that I could take in the sun. And then I got better!”

“Wow. I’m definitely getting plenty of sun, thankfully.” I thought about my few days in jail, how the guards only let us in the yard for ten minutes each day.

“We need Vitamin D. You can survive on Vitamin D energy alone, actually. Nothing but the sun. Prana, baby. Look into it. So I don’t understand why the monkeys are in the shade all the time.”

“I bet even in the shade, they get indirect sunlight. And in the summer, shade is so important. They probably get dehydrated and sun damaged, like us.”

“I’ll have to think about that. Indirect sun. Indirect.” She screwed her features into a squint, as though that was the first she had heard of the concept. “You know, it’s a myth that the sun is dangerous. If you are getting burnt by the sun, it’s because you don’t have a good relationship with the sun. Think about it. Which animals get sunburnt?”

I had no idea what she wanted me to say. “I think you’re blaming the victim there. We have skin; most animals have fur. Or feathers.” I looked around for Tierra or Dagmar, trying to figure out how to get out of the conversation. “You know what? Maybe food is their delicious way to capture the sun. The monkeys love watermelon, which is basically sun and water, so I think they are okay.”

“I say, cut out the middleman! But I’ll think about your very valid points. I’ll sit with it. Hey, can you do me a favor?” Mischa took my hand, her grip wizened and compact.

“I will if I can. What’s up?”

“Do they let you give out Dagmar’s medicine bags? Mine was short last month, and I absolutely don’t want the bad energy of complaining, but I just thought if you could quietly replace it, it was worth asking.”

“Uh, no, I don’t have anything to do with that.”

“Cool, cool. Well, forget I said anything.” She dropped my hand fast, sending it swinging, and squinted at me again. “I’m gonna sit with your ideas.”

Mischa meant that literally, because she left to sit farther down the bench to meditate. I was on my own to guard the macaques, so I decided to pace along the fence line in patrol, giving Mischa’s bench a wide berth. I found myself suddenly exhausted from trying to follow the interaction. Did she mean salve and other herbal remedies when she asked for Dagmar’s medicine? My pacing caught the attention of Cornelius and Henri, who starting walking with me along the fence.

“Prana, baby,” I whispered to them.