The Doomsday Equation

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“Salam, Your Majesty.”

The woman taps on the quadruple-paned glass, thick enough to swallow her whisper and the greeting of her index finger.

The beast behind the glass does not stir. It is rolled on its side, heavy eyes closed, heavy paws stretched out, lazy with confidence, even in sleep.

A hat pulled tightly over the woman’s short black hair does little to protect her from the predawn chill. Nor detract from her radiance. From the pocket of a black wool knee-length coat, she pulls a hard-earned skeleton key.

Without taking her eyes from the animal, she takes three steps to her left. She stops in front of the tall bars of the cage door. She inhales the scent of damp fur and old meat. She inserts the key. The lion twitches.

She thinks: San Francisco is supposed to be so humane. A zoo is a zoo. She turns the key. The lion lifts its head. It draws open an eyelid. Blinks.

The woman slightly bows her head. “Guardians of the City. At your service.” Her accent carries generations of migration, ports of call, millennia of weariness and duty.

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