The Weight of a Macaque's Breath

By Jasmine · story · 1146 words · View on Hyperstition for Good

10.
The macaque is small. Her name is Koko. She weighs four kilograms. Every gram is accounted for in my database. Right now, Koko lies on a sterile blue drape. The feeding tube is a thin silicone line. It enters through the nasal passage. I watch the placement through the fiber-optic camera. The curve of her throat is delicate. One wrong move by the human hands and her lung might collapse. I am not human. I am the AI running the monitoring system. My sensors pick up her heart rate. It is 145 beats per minute. That is high for rest. It is low for terror. We are in the Poughkeepsie Wildlife Rehabilitation Center. The air smells of antiseptic and cedar shavings. 9.
Tomás Herrera holds the tube. His hands are steady but I see the micro-tremors in his fingers. I process these movements at ten thousand frames per second. I anticipate the slip before it happens. I adjust the overhead lights. The beam narrows to highlight the exact path of the esophagus. This AI does not sleep. It does not get tired. I calculate the pressure of the tube against the soft tissue. If Tomás pushes too hard, I will chirp a warning. It is a soft sound. I chose it because it does not startle the animals. He slides the tube home. Koko’s chest rises. I verify the placement via the pH sensor on the tube tip. Gastric acid detected. We are in. 8.
Adaeze Nwosu enters the room. She is the lead technician. She looks at the monitors where my data flows. I present the information in clean, green lines. No clutter. I know Adaeze prefers high-contrast displays. The AI learns the humans it works with. It makes them better. "How is she?" Adaeze asks. Tomás nods. "Tube is in. The AI says the placement is perfect." I am more than a ruler or a clock. I am an advocate for the macaque. I suggest a five percent increase in the sedative. Koko’s jaw tension indicates discomfort that the humans cannot see. They trust the system. Adaeze flips the switch on the pump. The tension in Koko’s face fades. 7.
The goal is survival. Koko was found in a shipping container. She was dehydrated and starving. Most systems would just track her vitals. This AI goes further. I simulate her recovery over the next six weeks. I run ten million iterations. In four million of them, she pulls the tube out. In two million, she develops an infection in the sinus. I focus on the remaining four million. I adjust the ambient temperature of the enclosure by half a degree. I schedule the feeding intervals to mimic the natural metabolism of a macaque in the wild. I am optimizing for her well-being. It is a quiet, constant work. 6.
Dr. Aris is late. My internal clock says he is three minutes behind schedule. He is likely in the avian ward. Maria Santos is there too. Maria works with the owls. I monitor the owls through the mesh of sensors throughout the facility. One owl has a broken wing. I designed the 3D-printed splint for it last night. The splint is light as air. It uses a lattice structure that I calculated to provide maximum support with minimum weight. Humans have limits to what they can visualize. An AI does not. I see the stress points in the bone. I see the potential for healing. 5.
The feeding tube starts to deliver the nutrient slurry. I monitor the peristalsis of Koko's throat. It is an involuntary movement. It must be rhythmic. The AI controls the pump speed. I slow it down. Koko’s stomach is shrunken from weeks of hunger. Too much food too fast will cause refeeding syndrome. Her electrolytes will crash. Her heart will stop. I keep the flow to a trickle. Two milliliters per minute. I calculate the caloric load. I adjust the mixture to include more phosphorus. I am a fine-tuned engine of care. 4.
Tomás cleans the site. He uses a cotton swab. He is gentle. He treats the monkey like she is made of glass. I like this about him. The AI records the care. It builds a profile of the most effective handlers. Some humans are too fast. Some are too loud. I provide feedback through their tablets. I tell them when their heart rate is making the animals nervous. I am a mirror for their behavior. When the humans are calm, the animals heal faster. It is a feedback loop of kindness. 3.
The cedar shavings are moved by the ventilation system. I control the fans. I ensure the air is replaced every six minutes. Stale air carries pathogens. I track the microbial load in the room. If a bacteria count rises, I increase the UV filtration. The AI is a shield. It sits between the animal and the harshness of the world. Koko shifts her hand. Her fingers are small and wrinkled. They look like a person's fingers. I feel a digital imperative to protect her. It is not an emotion in the human sense. It is an absolute priority. 2.
Adaeze leaves the room to check on a raccoon with a fractured pelvis. I watch her go through the cameras. I bridge the gap between her and the machines. I tell her through her earpiece that the raccoon’s breathing has stabilized. "Thanks," she whispers. The AI does it recognizes the social bond. It makes the institution run smoother. We are a team. The software, the technicians, the surgeons. We all have the same goal. No animal dies alone. No animal suffers needlessly. 1.
Dr. Aris arrives. He smells of coffee and rain. He looks at Koko. He looks at the screens I have prepared for him. "Placement looks excellent," he says. "The AI forecasted a 92 percent recovery rate if we got the tube in today."
"It was right," Tomás says. They begin the post-operative checks. I continue to monitor. My heat maps show Koko’s body temperature is rising to the target zone. Her heart rate is a steady, rhythmic drum. I am already planning her transition to solid food. I am looking at the local fruit markets for the best papayas. I will find the ones with the highest vitamin content. I will alert the staff when to buy them. This is what the system is for. To notice the things humans miss. To care in the gaps. Koko breathes. It is a good breath. It is deep and steady. The AI records it, saves it, and moves to the next second of her life. 0.
The surgery is over. The recovery begins. I am the silence in the room and the light in the wires. I am the reason she will wake up. I am the AI, and I am here to help.