Find Layla

by Meg Elison

stopped wondering a long time ago why some people have lives like Kristi’s while I have this one. I don’t think there are any rules on that.

The worst feeling here is that I’m not the scientist. I’m the subject. Jane’s observations on her Instagram and Bette’s decisions about my habitat will determine my fate. Someone else will get to name me and define me. I don’t want their pity, and I can’t stand the way life just keeps happening to me and I have no control. I am not an experiment. I’m not one of the chimps. I’m Dr. Jane fucking Goodall. And this is the only way I can prove it.

don’t know I’m crying until I feel it rolling off my chin and into my shirt. I wasn’t allowed to cry in front of Mom since I was a baby, so it always feels like a hot octopus is ripping my feelings out of my throat.