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Randall frowned, and he tried to wiggle the tray enticingly. It was beans, bread, and a piece of ham. He didn’t understand why the animal inside didn’t want any of it, but he considered maybe it was the wrong kind of food.
“Randall,” a deep voice from behind him snapped. “What are you doing?”
Randall jumped up to his feet to find Mr. King behind him. He grinned nervously down at him. “Hey, sir. Uh, nice night, huh?”
“What are you doing?” Mr. King repeated flatly.
“Uh, just, uh…”
“That is our newest attraction, and it is not a pet.” Mr. King narrowed his eyes. “It’s a wild creature, and it bit off two of the handler’s fingers when they got it into the crate last week. It’s dangerous.”
Randall glanced back at the crate warily. He suspected the handler might have deserved to lose those fingers. “Huh.”
“Don’t worry.” Mr. King smirked. “I’ll get it into shape so it’s ready for our next show. We go live in a week, Randall. Are you ready?”
“Ready, sir.”
“Good.” Mr. King turned to leave, but he stopped to eyeball Randall one more time. “Leave the crate alone, all right?”
“Yes, sir. Yup.” Randall smiled. “Totally understood. I will absolutely leave that crate alone.”
He did not leave the crate alone.
Every chance he had, Randall snuck over to it. He tried feeding the creature inside everything he could think of, but nothing was ever taken.
The creature was nothing if not polite, and it would gently push the tray away with a soft cry.
That’s how Randall got his first glimpse of it—a leathery wing like a bat’s with a delicately webbed digit, shoving the tray back.
It had been two days now, and the creature hadn’t eaten anything.
Randall was getting worried.
Cookey told him that Mr. King had him giving it leftover gruel, but it wouldn’t eat that either. The rumor was that the creature was on some sort of hunger strike, and it was probably going to starve to death soon. Mr. King’s plan was to let it die and stuff it so he could charge people to stare at its body since it wasn’t working out.
Randall refused to accept that.
He remembered that some species of bats ate fruit, and a new plan was hatched. There wasn’t much in the way of fresh fruit in Cookey’s mess tent to be found, so Randall headed out in the woods surrounding the circus. He got ate up by mosquitoes and chiggers, but he was able to find a blackberry bush and some wild strawberries.
He carried back two buckets worth, and he knew he couldn’t wait until nightfall to sneak over to the crate. He fixed up a small bowl and hurried over, dropping down to push the bowl through the hole.
“Hello?” he whispered. “You okay in there, little one?”
He didn’t hear movement at first, and his heart dropped into his stomach as he feared the worst.
But there! A little wing reached out for the bowl, and then Randall could hear desperate munching sounds. It only took about ten seconds, and the bowl reappeared at the hole, empty.
Randall pumped his fist into the air.
“You got it to eat?” Mr. King’s voice had again found him.
Randall grinned sheepishly. “Ah, yes, sir. It, uh, it seems to like fruit.”
Mr. King studied Randall for a few agonizingly long moments. “All right. Fine. You’re in charge of it now. Get it to eat. I need it to get its strength back up.”
“Really?” Randall blinked.
Mr. King fixed Randall with a stare. “Like I don’t know who snuck those watermelons to the elephants back in Atlanta. Or the roast pig to the tiger in Knoxville before it finished roasting. I know you like animals, Randall. Go on. See if you can work your magic with that thing.”
