The first Saturday of September was International Vulture Awareness Day. That meant Cal got his 15 minutes of fame on the local news. The old buzzard ate up the attention like fresh carrion, hamming it for the camera while his handler charmed the carefully cultivated audience. We’d bused the entire, photogenic second-grade class from César Chavez Elementary out to the hinterlands for a full day at the Golden State Wildlife Rehabilitation Center.

“California condors have a wingspan of more than nine feet!” Melanie, the veteran handler, enthused. Cal obligingly extended his feathered appendages. “This guy here can glide for hours, searching for food. Who can guess Cal’s favorite meal?”

“Dead animals!” chirped one tyke. He screwed his face into an exaggerated expression of disgust. His classmates giggled, a few making gagging sounds.

Melanie smiled, unfazed. “That’s right,” she beamed. “Cal is nature’s own garbage disposal unit. Condors play a very important role in the ecosystem. Who here can explain what an ecosystem is?”

A couple of hands tentatively went up. The star of the show posed self-importantly while his handler praised one child’s stumbling attempt. I stepped forward and signaled from stage left. Melanie acknowledged the cue with a subtle nod and turned back to the class. Her expression took on a doleful cast. “Sadly, condors like Cal almost died out completely. Did you know only twenty-seven were left in the entire world?”

Keep it age appropriate, I fretted. But Melanie was a pro; she could explain the consequences of DDT and lead poisoning like a recurring character on Sesame Street. Cal’s wings drooped pathetically as the handler summed up his species’ darkest days. Good boy.

“Poor Cal,” a little girl said. Her lower lip trembled.

Melanie smiled. “You have a big heart, sweetie. We’re lucky there’re people who care so much about our feathered friends. Some of those people worked tirelessly to restore the condor population. Now, there are hundreds of condors flying around, doing what they do best. But we still have a long way to go. Can anyone tell me what conservation means?”

Several hands shot up this time, waving enthusiastically in the air. My coworker praised every attempted answer, and then sprung a “surprise” behind-the-scenes tour.

The teacher and a pair of amused parents began herding the class toward the onsite classroom, camera operator bringing up the rear. The production manager gave me a thumbs-up. That meant the Center’s website and donation information had popped up on viewers’ screens. I smiled, satisfied.

Satisfied, but also desperate. We didn’t just need the cash; we really needed the cash.

* * *

“We really need the cash,” Arabella Bidwell affirmed later that afternoon. The chair directed a piercing look at the other board members seated around the scuffed table. Most of the furniture in the building resembled retired scratching posts. “Our annual gala didn’t do nearly as well as we hoped.”

A subdued board pondered its options. My phone buzzed, but I ignored it. My tenure at the Center had cured me of jumping at every text or ring; reporters almost never reached out proactively. For now, I promised myself for the nth time. The Center had made huge strides since I took on the PR role, but the bar had been set abysmally low.

Arabella sighed and swiveled her chair around to face me. “Any ideas, Min-Su? We could use some of your out-of-the-box thinking.”

“I do have a few, actually.” I cleared my throat and brought out my notes. The ideas were perhaps a little too out of the box for this group. But we were far enough in the red that the board might be willing to listen.

“Min-Su?” Melanie’s head, the familiar, gray-streaked blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail, popped into the Center’s excuse for a conference room. “Ruben’s been trying to reach you. Says we have a little situation.”

* * *

“Some restaurant owner in Greenwood keeps calling, insisting we take care of his problem,” Ruben Aronoff said by way of greeting, arms crossed over his chest. “The local wildlife keeps getting into his dumpster.”

I frowned. “Did you tell him to call Fish and Wildlife?”

Ruben exhaled and leaned back in his swivel chair. The front wheels lifted a precarious three inches. “Yup. He wouldn’t listen to reason.”

“But whaddaya need me for?” I demanded. “Unless he’s a local big cheese and plans on making a stink about it to the media.”

“The board’s been crystal clear that community relations are a top priority moving forward. That’s within your purview now.” My boss was merciless.

I bit back a groan. He was right: our former community relations manager had retired three months earlier, and the Center, shockingly, couldn’t find anyone willing to do the job for the same pittance. Consequently, the “other duties as assigned” clause of my job description had metastasized. But I couldn’t complain, because—

“We all wear a lot of hats around here.” Ruben’s tone gentled. My eyes drifted to the framed diploma half-hidden behind a stack of file folders, and then sideways to the utility belt hanging from a hook. Ruben Aronoff as a still-life painting: executive director, doctor of veterinary medicine, and fixer of everything that broke down in the Center.

Touché. I corked the whine and squared my shoulders. “What kind of a problem are we talking about?”

* * *

“I understand you have a bear problem, Mr. Lombardi?” I spoke pleasantly into the phone. I kept my voice low; the walls were thin in my so-called office. More of a hopped-up cubicle, really.

“A big bear problem!” the man huffed. “Look. It’s bad enough the creature’s been going through our dumpster and making a mess every damn night. But we just started offering dinner service! What if one of my patrons runs into the thing after dark? What’ll that do to business?”

“I can see how that would be a problem,” I admitted.

“No kidding!” he snarked back. “So, are you people gonna take care of it, or what?”

I drew in a deep breath. “I’m truly sorry about your situation, Mr. Lombardi. But the mission of the Golden State Wildlife Rehabilitation Center is to treat and rehabilitate injured animals so they can return to the wild.” Well, return most of them. The Center’s ambassador program consisted of “non-releasables” like Cal, who had spent too much time with humans as a chick. “It doesn’t sound like this bear of yours is injured. The state Fish and Wildlife Department is best equipped to handle nuisance wildlife, and I’m happy to put you in t—”

“I heard about you folks on the news,” Mr. Lombardi interrupted. “A lot of what you do is helping endangered animals, right?”

On the one hand, I was glad we were getting more traction in the media. On the other hand …

“Well, yes. Some of our programs are dedicated to rehabilitating at-risk species. But,” I said reasonably, drawing on my still rudimentary knowledge. “The California black bear isn’t considered ‘at-risk.’”

“Well, there you go!” Mr. Lombardi said triumphantly. “I don’t have a black bear problem. I have a grizzly problem.”

* * *

“He has a black bear problem,” Frank told me confidently.

I’d met the wildlife biologist right outside of the Leaning Tower of Pancakes — serving flapjacks, crepes, and the strongest espresso this side of the Rockies from 4 a.m. to 11 p.m., newly extended hours.

“Your average guy on the street wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, especially from a distance. A lot of black bears don’t even have black fur.”

“What are the differences?” I was genuinely curious. My natural habitat was urban, and the Center’s lone, somewhat geriatric black bear was the sole extent of my experience. I also had a bit of a chip on my shoulder about being the sole liberal arts major on staff. But Frank never condescended to me.

The man grinned. “You won’t run into any this far south, if you’re worried about it. Anyhow, grizzlies are a lot bigger. Figure four hundred to over a thousand pounds for adult males, two-fifty for the females. Adult male black bears are also about two-fifty.”

I harrumphed. “That’s not especially helpful. What if I run into a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bear? Is it a female grizzly or a male black bear? I’m not going to get that close to check, if you know what I mean.”

“Look at the back,” Frank advised. “A grizzly will have a prominent shoulder hump and longer claws. Oh, and an upturned muzzle.”

“Got it.” I nodded somberly, pretending to take notes. “Now, how do I avoid getting horribly mauled?”

“Thank God you’re here!” The restaurant door flew open, releasing an aromatic blast of maple syrup and industrial-strength coffee. Sal Lombardi stepped out, a rotund man of middling age wearing a sticky-looking apron. He wrung his hands. “I’ve tried everything, everything to bear-proof the dumpster. But Brutus still finds a way into the trash.”

Brutus? I mouthed at Frank.

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Lombardi,” my friend reassured. “We’ll help you with your bear problem.”

The restaurateur sighed with relief. Then he paused and blinked at Frank’s khakis and the vest with the state Fish and Wildlife patch. “You — you’re not gonna kill him, are you?” The man switched his accusatory glare to me. “Sure, Brutus is a pest, but I didn’t want you to go and narc on him! He hasn’t done anything bad, besides making a mess and scaring the bejesus outta Mrs. Mendoza’s cockapoo.”

“We’re not going to hurt your be — Brutus, Mr. Lombardi,” Frank used his most soothing tone. “We just don’t want him to become too habituated to human food sources. All we’re here to do tonight is observe.”

“And after that?” Mr. Lombardi appeared less than convinced.

Frank smiled winningly. “Worst-case scenario, we’ll find a nice new woodsy home for our ursine friend. Far, far away from anyone’s dumpster.”

Mollified, but not without a final, suspicious glance, Mr. Lombardi returned to his kitchen.

The sun lowered beyond the horizon. Frank and I settled into position a prudent distance away but within sight of the dumpster, ready for Brutus to make his nightly appearance.

“Keep sharp and remember what I said about safety,” Frank reminded.

“So you’ve said,” I chuckled. “Five times now.”

“If it really were a grizzly, I wouldn’t let you be here at all,” Frank retorted. Then he sighed, his voice taking on a wistful note. “What I’d give to meet a real California grizzly.”

“But there’s no real chance of that. Is there?” I ventured.

Frank snorted. “It’s not just improbable, Min-Su. It’s impossible.” He stretched both arms above his head until something cracked. “Ursus arctos californicus was completely extirpated from the state. The last time anyone reported seeing one was back in the 1920s, or thereabouts.”

“Are you kidding me? The grizzly’s even on the state flag.” I pointed across the town square to a courthouse — yes, Greenwood really was that tiny — where the flag in question flew proudly one pole over from the Star-Spangled Banner.

“It’s the truth.” Frank rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s what we in the field call a cruel irony.”

“I’ll say—”

A crashing sound interrupted my words, followed by a series of grunts. The two of us froze. Excitement rose — despite the potential for a horrible mauling. This was a real, live, wild bear. Nothing like Bernie, the Center’s placid bear-in-residence.

A lumbering form shuffled into sight. It was a bear. A very large brown bear, with a prominent shoulder hump, upturned muzzle, and long claws.

“Et tu, Brute?” I whispered.

“Well, hell.” Frank said, a gobsmacked expression on his face. “Looks like we’ve got a grizzly problem, after all.”

* * *

Mr. Lombardi wept when they tranqued Brutus in the morning. “But it’s for the best,” he conceded, and waved a checkered napkin in farewell.

The next few days passed in a flurry of health checks, genetic testing, and settling a rather bewildered Brutus into his temporary new home. The DNA tests confirmed the Center’s latest tenant was indeed an apparently resurrected Ursus arctos californicus.

A rapturous Frank called a few weeks later. His agency had found a female grizzly with her cubs, and several hikers reported more sightings farther south. The man was literally in tears.

I was feeling pretty good myself. Media coverage and donations were up, and just in time: the Center’s avian population had exploded. The boom owed largely to an influx of California condors, starting with a family that witnessed one fly into some power lines near their vacation rental. The fortunate condor survived mostly unharmed, albeit lightly singed. The rest arrived with similar backstories. Once patched up, the condors proved in remarkably good shape: no measurable lead contamination at all, and a very high degree of genetic diversity among the group. Melanie was ecstatic.

So was Cal, now he had new friends he could pick a bone with. Literally speaking.

Then the turkeys showed up — just in time to arrange a Thanksgiving tie-in with a half-dozen influencers and the news. Not just the local news, either. Everyone was charmed by our flock of Meleagris californica, supposedly done in by drought and overhunting in the early Holocene.

Apparently not.

Between the gobblers, Brutus, and the condors, that year’s Giving Tuesday was our most profitable in over a decade. Donations shot up again in December, when a very confused rancher called in a jaguar.

Ms. Walker had suspected a cougar of going after her livestock. She caught a very different big cat red-pawed on camera, and immediately shared the footage with all 327 of her closest friends on social media. We named the jaguar Miracle, because she arrived the last day of Hanukkah, and rapidly threw a habitat together, complete with a Kitty Cam. Nobody came forward to claim her.

“I doubt anyone will,” Ruben said philosophically. “Private ownership of big cats being highly illegal, and all.”

“Well, I doubt Miracle made the trek all the way up north from Central America,” I joked.

“If she did, it would be a homecoming.” Ruben sighed at my confusion. “After Brutus and those turkeys … well, I’ve been doing some reading lately. It seems like the jaguar’s range used to extend up through California, at least until the mid-1800s or so.”

Wow. I tried imagining a California inhabited by 800-pound grizzlies and big, predatory felines, instead of fast sports cars bearing the same name and cartoon bears warning campers against starting forest fires.

Time passed, and I put the thought aside as a fickle public turned its attention to the latest amusements and outrages. The Center rang in the New Year, and it was back to pitching World Wetlands Day and our annual Adopt-an-Ungulate campaign. Musings over grizzlies, jaguars, and prehistoric gobblers faded away.

Until the elephant.

* * *

It began with rumors circulating on the Get Off My Lawn platform. Home security cameras recorded glimpses of a ponderous figure with an unmistakable proboscis stripping leaves from a McMansion’s manicured shrubbery. The only tangible proof consisted of denuded ficus and the mangled remains of wrought iron fencing.

Most shrugged off the accounts as suburban legend and clever deepfakes. Then more reputable sources verified the videos, and the sheriff’s office confirmed reports of property damage. Intrigued residents began making inquiries to local zoos about misplaced pachyderms. Zoo officials stiffly denied any such claims: all their elephants were fully accounted for, thank you very much.

The issue escalated to the state level. Frank asked the Center’s assistance in investigating the situation. The joint team initiated Operation Suburban Jungle. A week later, Frank called from the road to inform us the crew was on its way back, tranqued pachyderm in tow.

“Wait. You’re bringing the elephant here? Not a zoo?” I asked, confused.

“Um, about that elephant …” Frank trailed off. “Well. You’ll see.”

So I did, when the crew arrived and began the laborious process of unloading the large tusker.

“It’s furry.”

Indeed, the “elephant,” in addition to being a particularly stocky and robust specimen, was covered by a luxurious coat of long, reddish-brown hair.

Everyone immediately demanded explanations. The Center’s newest full-time staff member, and our very first paleozoologist, was only too happy to provide one. She was a cheerful woman with the lyrical name of Mona Hamouda, and insisted on going by “Dr. Mo.”

“What we have here is a refugee from the past. Eleven thousand years ago, or so,” Dr. Mo began. I’d joined her at the enclosure to take photos for our new media kit. “She’s doing pretty well adapting to the 21st century, all things considered. Even if the locals don’t appreciate her idea of landscaping.”

“You’re not worried it’s too warm for her?” I tapped a finger against my chin. “I thought they mostly lived up north, where it was cold even for the Ice Age.”

“You’re thinking about woolly mammoths,” she corrected. “Our prehistoric friend is a mastodon.” She patted the mastodon’s flank. The animal whuffed once and continued to denude the closest tree.

I tilted my head and observed the pachyderm serenely munching away. “I couldn’t tell you the difference,” I admitted. “The only time I saw either was on a field trip to the La Brea Tar Pits.”

Dr. Mo grinned. “Now you have an expert at your service.” She tentatively ran her fingers along the mastodon’s coat, face shining with reverence. Like a child startled awake in the middle of the night, just in time to witness Santa Claus slipping up the chimney. “So.” Dr. Mo cleared her throat; I pretended not to notice the woman blinking away tears. “The Mammut pacificus, or the Pacific Mastodon. This entire region used to be lousy with them.”

“The mind boggles.” A frisson ran down my spine as I stared at the prehistoric beast. “And now they’re back. One of them, at least.”

“I hope we find more. I’m worried she’ll get lonely.” Cal snorted from his position several feet up. The pachyderm’s back proved an irresistible roosting spot, and our resident condor population had quickly adopted the mastodon.

“I’m sure she appreciates Cal’s companionship,” Dr. Mo laughed. “But I suspect she needs to be around her own kind, too. The theory is females probably lived in herds, like elephants. They were social animals. Are, I mean.”

* * *

I also appreciated the value of social networks, and this latest windfall presented an irresistible opportunity. The Center launched a naming contest that garnered millions of votes. The people spoke, and we announced to great fanfare the winning name of Lazarus.

Or Lara, for short.

Money flowed into the Center’s bank account, everything from single-digit donations to multi-figure grants from big-name philanthropists. An alphabet soup of federal agencies practically threw taxpayer dollars at us.

The Board of Directors announced an endowment and made desperately needed upgrades to our facilities. Ruben could finally retire his toolbelt. The Center also hired more ologists: wildlife biologists, zoologists, ecologists, ethologists.

Plus, a hippologist to handle our new herd of ancient horses.

Though horses might not be the most accurate word. The mammals looked more like zebras, partially striped and with bristly manes of short hair. These Equus scotti were more mysterious survivors of the Pleistocene.

“An entire herd!” Dr. Mo proclaimed at the next team meeting. The expanded staff barely fit around our spiffy new marble-topped conference table. “They’re just showing off now.”

Just who were “they,” anyway? All sorts of theories abounded: divine intervention, biohackers, extraterrestrials, time portals, witchcraft. Nobody was surprised when the feds showed up. The FBI and DHS grilled everyone even tangentially related, including our interns, but they finally let the Center off the hook. We were permitted to carry on looking after the animals.

“Pure bluster,” Ruben quipped. “I’d love to know who they think is better qualified.”

The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service set up a local field office to keep tabs on the situation. I felt sorry for them: the agency was overwhelmed with petitions to list the returnees as endangered and designate critical habitat for them.

“W-what if we get dinosaurs next?” our government liaison babbled nervously one day. His hands shook where they clutched a coffee mug. Decaffeinated, I hoped. “Or something from further back like, I dunno, a dimetrodon.”

I hoped not. My burgeoning department had enough work on its plate as it was. I was officially management now, with a private office and a full team under my direction. It seemed a third of the population had lost its collective mind and demanded the entire state be declared a biohazard zone. Another third begged us to open a theme park.

My favorite calls were those asking how they could help.

The biggest challenge I foresaw was sustaining interest over the long term. Not only for Brutus, Miracle, Lara, and the rest, but all the wildlife people like us were trying so desperately to help. My conversations with reporters took on a new, more earnest tone.

Ruben began giving regular testimony before Congress. “How and why it happened, I don’t know. What I do know is we have a second chance,” he urged. “A second chance to do right by these and the other living beings we share our world with. To truly invest in conservation and restore at least part of the habitat we’ve so recklessly destroyed.”

“Will we get a third chance?” he added. “I, for one, wouldn’t bet on it.”

In private, he admitted it wouldn’t be easy. “We’re taking on deeply entrenched interests,” Ruben told me. “Winning this fight is like trying to accomplish the impossible, and — and why are you smiling, Min-Su?”

“Not so long ago,” I began. “I asked someone about the chances of our Brutus turning out to be a grizzly. He told me it wasn’t just improbable; it was impossible.”

A beat passed.

Then Ruben grinned right back.

* * *

The de-extinction trend ended with the horses. By then, we’d identified viable populations and the funding continued to come in. It was no longer a torrent, but definitely a sustainable flow. Plus, we now had the endowment.

It was just as well. The feds had let the Center be, but the county still crawled with agents, and those were just the ones we could see. Whoever or whatever was responsible, California was probably getting too hot to handle and they’d decided it was time to retire.

My bet was on Florida. Reports of Bachman’s warblers and Carolina parakeets had popped up in Okeechobee County, and there were sightings of Caribbean monk seals off the Florida Keys.

Maybe, one day, I’ll visit the East Coast and look up to see the skies crowded with passenger pigeons. Or I’ll sail off the Gulf of California and delight in spotting vaquitas trailing the boat.

Improbable, perhaps.

But not impossible.