Mommy, Mommy, my son calls out as he hoists his hand puppet over my shoulder, I am a whale shark, and I need a snack, please. He crawls into my lap and talks with the puppet for a bit before he makes the puppet turn back to me and ask, Where my shark family? Where they? The whale shark connected to my son contracts, then expands—its furry, pink mouth wide again—and pauses there. In my mind that puppet mouth is still open, waiting for an answer. Perhaps that answer swims in that giant tank, where so many of the beautiful and mighty sharks I once encountered have long since died and have been
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