Nineteen at Feeding Time

Mara counted the penguins before unlocking the service gate. Eighteen black heads turned toward the bucket in her hand, exactly as they had every morning for four years. Then something bumped beneath the empty feed cart. A nineteenth penguin waddled out, shook dust from its feathers, and joined the line. Mara shut the gate. No bird could have entered the sealed habitat overnight. She crouched to inspect its leg band and stopped breathing. The number belonged to Pip, the first penguin she had ever raised, buried behind the clinic last winter.