I have this whole mini-library of orca books now, stuff I read for this story, and in one of them,

I came across a line from a field biologist named Alexandra Morton.

She's explaining why, as a shy and awkward teenager, she found wild animals so compelling.

She writes, animals always knew what to do and where they belonged.

When I read that line in Morton's book, it resonated because I felt like it explained something

crucial about Keiko's story. Maybe the key to solving this puzzle of what to do with Keiko is

embedded inside that idea. If you believe what Morton is saying, then the way forward with

Keiko is simple. Just let him be. If he's placed in the right environment and given enough time,

he'll tap into that part of himself that knows what to do. He'll figure out who he is. Animals always do.

If you don't believe it, or if you believe by holding Keiko captive for two decades, we'd

transformed him into an exception to this rule, well then the calculus changes dramatically.

The only conclusion you can come to is that Keiko needs us, humans, for a while, certainly,

but maybe forever, To watch over him.

Teach him.

We broke him, so we bought him.

And this care is what we owe him.

We have to help him as best we can respond to those bewildering questions he can't seem to answer on his own.

What do I do? Where do I belong?

And in the summer of 2001, Hickos III in Iceland, that's precisely where the project was.

At a kind of crossroads. Do we believe Keko has somewhere deep inside the ability to figure it all out?

Or do we believe we must protect Keko from everything he doesn't know.

From serial productions in the New York Times,

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