The forest was calm that morning, the kind of quiet that settles between ancient trees near Angkor Wat. Brutus Jr. had been trailing behind the others, pausing to inspect leaves still damp with night air. Then everything changed.
He stopped suddenly. One leg lifted. His small body stiffened, confused more than frightened. A leech had attached itself just above his ankle, hidden where fur thins. Brutus Jr. didn’t cry loudly. Instead, he ran—straight toward the group—making small, uncertain sounds that carried through the trees.
He wasn’t asking with words. He was asking with trust.
Older monkeys turned. One moved closer, steady and unhurried, gently guiding him to sit. Brutus Jr. watched every movement, eyes wide, as if learning something important about the world—that discomfort doesn’t always mean danger, and that help can come quietly.
When it was over, he stayed close, pressing his side against another body as the forest returned to its rhythm. The trees stood tall. Cicadas resumed their song. And Brutus Jr. followed again, a little slower, but no longer alone.
