Zsofia Kapusi

Sirens pierced the quiet corridors of the Budapest Zoo office just after dawn. I had been sipping coffee, scanning stock orders, when the alarms howled through the thick stone walls. Screens flashed red: “Breach in Vet Wing.” I grabbed the master keys and a radio, running past exhibits in morning haze. Outside, keepers waved frantically toward the quarantine barn. A young keeper said two dart frogs were missing, the lock picked from inside. My mind, trained by decades of paperwork, jumped to numbers: black market values, conservation fines, the balance sheets I guard every day.

Inside the barn the air was heavy with disinfectant. Empty terrariums glistened under UV lamps. I logged the breach code, sealed the scene, and called the police. While we waited, I opened the digital ledger on my tablet. Three nights earlier a supplier had delivered a box of feeder crickets; the invoice looked normal until I noticed the approval stamp was crooked, as if forged. The signature belonged to me, yet I had been home sick that evening.

I am forty-eight, not old but old enough to trust small details. A forged stamp means an insider. Staff records showed only one employee with both access and skill: Márton, the new intern from Szeged University. I confronted him in the break room. He tried to laugh it off, until I revealed that every zoo radio logs location; his set had spent the night by the quarantine barn. His face drained of colour.

The police arrived, and within an hour the frogs were found in his locker, alive and vivid blue against a damp cloth. As officers led him away, city traffic began to rumble beyond the walls. I returned to my desk, heart still racing, but a calm settled over me. Budapest, Hungary would hear of an attempted wildlife theft, yet few would know that an office clerk had chased the first clues. I powered up my computer, filed the incident report, and smiled at the mundane glow of spreadsheets. Routine, it seems, can be as sharp as any alarm even here now.