The One and Only Ivan

nine thousand eight hundred and seventy-six days

Ruby is finally asleep. I watch her chest rise and fall. Bob, too, is snoring.

But my mind is still racing. For perhaps the first time ever, I’ve been remembering.

It’s an odd story to remember, I have to admit. My story has a strange shape: a stunted beginning, an endless middle.

I count all the days I’ve lived with humans. Gorillas count as well as anyone, although it’s not a particularly useful skill to have in the wild.

I’ve forgotten so many things, and yet I always know precisely how many days I’ve been in my domain.

I take one of the Magic Markers Julia gave me. I make an X, a small one, on my painted jungle wall.

I make more X’s, and more. I make an X for every day of my life with humans.

My marks look like this:

The rest of the night, I mark the days, and when I am done, my wall looks like this:

And so on, until there are nine thousand eight hundred and seventy-six X’s marching across my wall like a parade of ugly insects.