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find the magic recipe that will settle in the calf’s stomach.
     But so far, any type of nutrition I attempt to provide runs through her like water.
     I can see the light dimming in her eyes just as surely as she can see the hope fading
     in mine.
    I won’t let myself think about what will happen after she dies. How I’ll remove a
     250-hundred-pound carcass from the floor of my cottage without anyone knowing.
    I reach for a stack of research papers beside my bed that I haven’t had time to read.
     I’m looking for something—anything—that might give me the answer to saving her life.
     I find a mention about the similarities between human breast milk and elephant milk—how
     they both contain high concentrations of oligosaccharides, which may havesomething to do with infant brain development and resistance to infection. The authors
     make the claim that this is why breast-fed babies have an edge in IQ and immune system
     health, and why elephants have such extraordinary memories. After I read this, I realize
     that Neo had not handed me that baby formula as a joke, or to make fun of me. In fact,
     I am convinced he knows exactly what I’ve been hiding in my cottage.
    I am just opening the formula he gave me when there is a soft knock at the door again.
     “Anya,” I say. “I’m trying to sleep.”
    But the door opens and Neo steps inside. He takes one look at the tin of powdered
     milk on the counter and shakes his head. “Why didn’t you feed her what I gave you?
     A newborn can’t drink cow’s milk,” he mutters. “Don’t you know anything?”
    Anger flares in my belly. He’s not a bush vet or a zoologist; who is he to judge me?
     “I know a
lot
,” I fire back. “But I guess I was absent the day my Harvard neurobiology prof covered
     how to raise a goddamned baby elephant.”
    Ignoring me, Neo kneels to stroke the calf’s brow. “Where did you find her?”
    “Near the mopane tree, past the bend in the river where the wildebeest cross.”
    “She was with the five that were poached?”
    I nod. “I couldn’t leave her behind.”
    He doesn’t comment, just scrutinizes the calf. “She’s dehydrated,” Neo pronounces.
     “Her cheeks should be plump, like a toddler’s.” He reaches for the bottle I’ve improvised.
     I can tell he is impressed by the engineering as he pulls the rubber glove off the
     top and rinses out the glass container. “Please tell me you didn’t give her the cabernet.”
    I shake my head. “Just the milk.”
    “How much has she drunk?”
    “Gallons,” I say. “But it passes right through.” I hesitate. “Does anyone else … do
     the others …?”
    “Know about her? No.” He glances up and sees the question in my eyes. “I saw you walking
     into camp with her, like she was a pet on a leash. I watched you tie her to the porch
     last night.” He grins. “How’d that work out for you?”
    Neo slips a jar from the pocket of his jacket: The label reads “Coconut Oil.” “This
     should help with the diarrhea. Different animals need different fat and protein to
     survive.The coconut oil, it’s a substitute for the fat that would be in her mother’s milk,
     and it won’t upset her stomach.”
    “How do you know all this?”
    He shrugs. “I grew up in the bush, and my grandmother was a healer. She knew to use
     resin from the corkwood tree to treat a wound; she boiled roots from the bush willow
     to cure infertility; she knew that chewing the root of the mothakolana tree helped
     with a toothache. Once, when an elephant calf wandered into our village, she kept
     him alive for two weeks. Milk went right through him, so she tried adding banana,
     and rice, and butter, but the calf got sicker. She experimented with everything and
     finally figured out that if she added coconut oil to fat-free baby formula, he would
     keep it down.”
    “What happened to the calf?”
    “His herd came back for him,” Neo said. “But he would return to our village every