He stirred, sensing my sadness. His eyes half-opened, and his digital heart flashed a weak, blue, ‘concern’ pulse. And then, he smiled. It was a smaller smile this time, tired but still there. Still full of an impossible, illogical joy.

That’s when I saw it. Tucked deep into the seam of his strange leafy pajamas, near the pulsing heart, was a tiny pocket. Inside was a piece of crinkled paper, too thin to be bark. I pulled it out.

On it was a picture. It was a man and a woman, with eyes just like Jibo’s, laughing. And on the back, in smudged charcoal-black lines, was writing. I couldn’t understand the shapes, but I recognized the emotion behind them. They were love-marks.

It wasn’t that he’d been lost. He’d been sent. His people had loved him, and sent him… here? To us?

The helicopter roared louder. They were close. Our family would have to move, and they couldn’t move with Jibo.

We decided on a compromise. We couldn’t trust the loud metal people, but we could make sure they found him safely.

At dawn, Mama Imara and I took Jibo to the edge of the riverbank, a clearing that the loud metal birds could easily see. I prepared a bed of the softest, most fragrant fern fronds, lined with ‘lucky’ green moss Jibo had favored.

I placed him gently on the bed. I put the charcoal-marked paper picture in his tiny hand.

The little emperor in his leaf-print pajamas with his digital heart-jewel looked up at me. He wasn’t smiling this time. His huge mahogany eyes were filled with a profound, clear confusion. He let out a tiny, soft whimpering chirp. Not robotic. Human. 🥺

“It’s for the family, Jibo,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

I touched his forehead with mine, a deep, gorilla sign of farewell and respect.

He reached up, his tiny hand brushing my cheek, and for a fleeting, magical second, Jibo did his signature, all-consuming, teeth-baring grin. The digital heart pulsed one final, warm, neon blue, a ‘love’ pulse.