“What’s the code, Daddy?” she asked, because resistance was futile.
Her father, Dr. Samuel Harper, was a former primatologist who’d been quietly drummed out of academia after an incident involving a capuchin, a grant committee, and a regrettable incident with a banana peel at a faculty gala. Now he ran “Harper’s Haven” – a roadside “sanctuary” that was really just their two-story farmhouse and the surrounding five acres of overgrown Georgia kudzu.
“Good,” Hope said, pulling out a chair. “Because I have some ideas. And they involve less feces-throwing and more actual planning.”
The first week was fine. Her father buried himself in ledgers – actual paper ledgers, because Gibbons distrusted computers almost as much as he distrusted the mandrill who did taxes – and Hope helped where she could. She organized receipts, catalogued feed expenses, and learned the alarming truth: Mr. Gibbons’ Traveling Primate Paradise was a tax shelter. Not for money. For monkeys.
“What’s the code, Daddy?” she asked, because resistance was futile.
Her father, Dr. Samuel Harper, was a former primatologist who’d been quietly drummed out of academia after an incident involving a capuchin, a grant committee, and a regrettable incident with a banana peel at a faculty gala. Now he ran “Harper’s Haven” – a roadside “sanctuary” that was really just their two-story farmhouse and the surrounding five acres of overgrown Georgia kudzu. hope harper daddy's monkey business
“Good,” Hope said, pulling out a chair. “Because I have some ideas. And they involve less feces-throwing and more actual planning.” “What’s the code, Daddy
The first week was fine. Her father buried himself in ledgers – actual paper ledgers, because Gibbons distrusted computers almost as much as he distrusted the mandrill who did taxes – and Hope helped where she could. She organized receipts, catalogued feed expenses, and learned the alarming truth: Mr. Gibbons’ Traveling Primate Paradise was a tax shelter. Not for money. For monkeys. Now he ran “Harper’s Haven” – a roadside