I reached for warmth. For fur. For the steady rhythm every newborn macaque knows to find. But my hands closed around air. The others moved together in a soft river of bodies, brushing, grooming, breathing as one. When I pressed close, they shifted away — not angry, not cruel, just certain.

Then one day, something orange and still was placed beside me. I touched it and waited for it to leave. It did not. I wrapped my arms around it and pressed my cheek into its chest. For the first time, my hands were full.