When the old keeper forgot one latch, the 400-pound silverback reached through the steel

the notebook on the table. His eyes moved to it without interest at first. Then something in his face changed. Not recognition exactly. Recognition had become too large a word. It was more like a hand brushing the edge of something in the dark.

“You kept notes,” I said.

Tom looked at me, waiting.

“For Winston.”

The name did not reach him at first. I saw continue reading …