The manager pulled it from the factory cages and took it to the medical wing.
The wing was huge, white and grey, usually reserved for quarantines. She didn't let anyone else look at it, not even to hose it down. She was smart that way.
She washed it herself, then ran its barcode. A yearling – somewhere from twelve to fourteen. In that case, it was a runt.
She clapped in its face and it started. She tugged its hair, pinched its scrawny arm, and it squealed, backing away from her.
She drew a pen from her pocket and threw it across the room; its clear blue eyes followed the ballpoint to rest.
Livestock don't do that.
Something was very wrong.