Barnaby stood inside his enclosure, watching the golden butterfly flutter past the bars.
He took a step toward the open gate. His trunk touched the cool iron. It was smooth. Solid.
He nudged the gate. It creaked open — just a crack.
His shoulders bumped the frame. He paused — then spotted bright green grass just beyond.
He stretched his trunk and brushed the soft blades. They smelled sweet and damp.
He smiled and stepped fully through. Sunlight warmed his grey skin. A bird chirped from the trees.
The golden butterfly fluttered around his head. He let out a low rumble and took a wobbly step onto the soft earth.
He followed the butterfly toward a muddy puddle and sprays water over his back.