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XX.”
    “That’s for humans. Komodos have the ZW genes, and they’re just the opposite of us. So a male has the same pair—ZZ—and the female has the opposing pair—ZW. Now, this is what happened with our Komodo.”

    “See? The DNA simulates fertilization by making a copy of itself, so you get either boys or nothing.”
    The kid didn’t seem that impressed. Meg handed back the map and smiled at the woman standing next to him. “You take that in to your science teacher. I’ll bet you get some extra credit points.”
    Turning around, her soft smile faded, and she replaced it with something closer to bared teeth. “Now, that concludes the tour of the Reptile Kingdom. There’s a tour of the Mammal Kingdom in half an hour, if you head straight out the exit and take a left at the river. Does anyone have any questions?”
    Only a few people lagged behind, and Meg breezed through most of the stock questions with stock replies.
    Yes, every day.
    As much as we can to keep them healthy and active.
    No, we don’t wrestle the crocodile.
    Rats and turkey parts. Yes, the bones too.
    Only if a stray bird flies into the building.
    The closest ones are in the cafeteria; go through the door and circle back to the round building on your right.
    She smiled, spoke briefly, and took small, prodding steps toward the exit door. If she was lucky, she’d be back to shoveling shit before lunch.
    ~
    Later, she waited in the damp concrete corridor that connected to the staff side of the reptile exhibits, with one leg propped against the wall and a bucket of raw turkey pieces at her side. The tour had gone pretty well today, though the secret shoppers never seemed happy. It was all a matter of appearances, and Meg knew how she came off to strangers. She mostly ignored the kids, didn’t try to sell the animals, and refused to point out the best photo ops. Call it de-marketing, whatever. Her beige uniform was clean but wrinkled, and six years of wear had started to fray the American flag appliquéd in the center of the back. Secret shoppers liked the keepers who came in pretty and accommodating packages, like Gemma with her neat, blonde braids and easy manners. Gemma’s tours brought the words all God’s creatures to mind, all crocheted and gaggingly cute on some farmhouse wall, while Meg only inspired inquiries about the bathrooms and, now, animal stereotypes regurgitated from the media.
    It was almost one o’clock. The door into Jata’s holding area was directly in front of her, and through those steel barriers she knew a crowd had started to assemble. Ever since the news of the virgin birth had hit the papers, Jata’s feedings were as popular as the dolphin show. People loved to watch the contrast between the giant lizard and the small woman, as thick, impenetrable scales swaggered up to vulnerable flesh with only the smell of raw meat between them. It made their bored, predatory pulses race. It made them think, What if?
    That’s why the attack stories were so popular. It didn’t matter what kind of attack—a tiger jumping out of its exhibit and biting teenagers, a grizzly mauling campers in a state park, a killer whale who (go figure) killed a trainer—the public ate up every juicy, horrible morsel. The woman from today’s tour group was no different. She hadn’t charted the town relative to the Komodos’ known habitat. She hadn’t visualized the circumstances or thought about the physiology of that boy—just a young boy, weak and skinny—and what he looked like to a starving dragon.
    Ben had found a picture of him from one of the news wires. He was cute, a sunbaked, grasshopper-legged kid who woke up one morning and wanted to go fishing with his uncle. No harm in that, right? Except this kid lived on Indonesia’s Komodo Island.
    There was only one village on the island and, because the national park reserved the rest of the land, the town was bursting at the seams. Every year, more people poured into Komodo Village for