In the zoo, the animals are either manic or deadly calm. Stag humps the cutout of a doe in his cage. Heron sits monk-like on a drawing of a pond. In the fishing zone, no fish remain. Tiger paces the cardboard enclave. Beavers make a dam out of slime. In the place of dogs, more wolflike cutouts. Somewhere on the top, a banner reads: “Today on display: a gharial’s snout, an axolotl’s tail, a yellownape’s feather, a rhino’s hide.” A child asks, crocodile, crocodile, may we cross your river? Only if you are wearing grey, the crocodile replies. Grey? Yes, like the asphalt, like the ash into which a forest burns. What’s happening to the animals, someone asks in a high-pitched voice. What’s happening, we repeat, like the faces of dolls melting in a house fire. Where is the zookeeper, we ask each other, speech garbled in panic. The children ask where is the krait, where is the star tortoise? Who has the keys, we ask, where is the gate?