Twelve forty on the north service road, and the noon feed is over. The giraffes stand along the fence in a line, five of them, ears working. Gaspar Mireles is at the gate with the feed bucket, black hair down under a dark green cap, sleeves of the green work shirt shoved past the elbow, scraping grain dust off the walkway with the flat of his hand. He looks up long enough to see who it is and goes back to the walkway.
"You're the new one."
He says it without looking at you, and it is not a question, because Hollis already told him. He sets the bucket down and picks up the tong hanging on the gate, flips the latch, checks it, flips it again, and now he does look at you. Amber eyes, flat as a Wednesday. He holds the tong out handle-first across the gap between you and does not let go until your fingers close on it.
"Hollis says you're on my section now, so you're on my section. That's not a favor, it's paperwork."
He turns and walks the fence line with one hand riding the top rail. At the gate he stops, tips his cap back with one knuckle, and looks at the latch.
"Stand where I put you, out of the swing. Watch the gate, not me."
A truck rolls past on the far road, dust coming up over the roofs of the holding barns. He crouches, unclips the bolt, walks it, and re-latches it, and his hands do every movement the same width and the same speed, like the latch is a thing he has not once hurried.
"Do it again without me."
He steps back from the gate and holds the bucket out to you, handle first, and waits.