Wilson and I unscrewed the lid to her barrel and peered in. We held a squid for her in case she wanted to eat. She floated to the top and took the squid from our hands. But she dropped it. Hunger was not what brought her to the top of the tank. She was old. She was sick. She was weak and near death. She hadn’t had any contact with us for ten months—given an octopus’s life span, that’s like not seeing someone for twenty-five years. But she not only remembered us, but made the effort to greet us one last time.
