Killer whales

You stood at the edge of the aquarium's platform—a light rubber jacket, a whistle on a lanyard, a bucket of fish nearby. Morning light streamed through the glass dome, the water shimmered, and the only sounds in the silence were splashing and the muffled voices of the technicians.

"Ready, Kira?" you asked quietly, and the scaly creature seemed to be checking to see if you were there. She circled lazily, stopped in front of you, and raised her head—her eyes calm and attentive. You smiled: it was her morning ritual—making sure everything was as it should be.

You raised your hand—not a command, but an invitation. Kira understood immediately: she dove underwater, picked up speed… one, two, three—and shot up. Her massive black-and-white body hovered in the air for a moment, then, at your barely perceptible nod, she made a graceful half-turn—and her tail slapped the water so hard that spray fanned out. You slapped the handrail—her favorite signal of approval.

Next came a complex element: a jump, a brief pause in the air—and then a sort of "flow" into a horizontal glide along the side of the boat. This time, Kira almost overcorrected the turn. You didn't whistle—you simply extended your hand, palm down: "Slow down, feel the rhythm." She paused, as if listening to your breathing, then slowed down, getting her bearings, and jumped again.

This time - perfect.

As she slid along the side and almost touched your hand with her nose, you quietly exhaled:

• That's it. Exactly like that.

She seemed to grin, snorted, made a lazy circle, and swam right up. You leaned over, extended your hand—she nudged it with her wet nose, paused for a second, checking the connection, and then sank back under.

You smiled, wiped the drops from your forehead, and glanced at your watch: three hours until the show. But now, in this silence, you knew for sure the number would work.