At Least One Giant Ground Sloth Is Alive Again

I found it curled in the shadow of what used to be a hospital. A slow hunch of fur, the color of old bark—like the forest had tried to grow itself a question. It didn’t look surprised to see me. Just blinked, as if measuring whether I was worth the glance. I sat cross-legged beside it, tore foil from a protein bar— offered the whole thing, wrapper and all. It took the crinkle in two fingers, held it to the light. Didn’t eat it. Just listened to the sound plastic makes in a nuclear breeze. It exhaled desert globemallow. A whole Quaternary extinction in a single breath. I didn’t ask my question out loud, but I think it heard anyway. Do we stand a chance? The sloth leaned its weight across a rusted sign that once read urgent care. It didn’t speak, but something about the pinch of its thick, prehensile lip said it knew what we’d done— to the soil, to time, to ourselves. It forgave none of it. When it finally turned to leave, I followed. Not because I thought it could save me, but because it didn’t try to.