Tourists think it never gets cold in Orlando, Florida. But local folks know how that wet cold, with drizzly rain that can go on for days, is bone-chilling bleak. Even the monkey, a Central American marmoset the size of a person’s hand, knows better. At the first hint of a cold January shower, he seems to want to hibernate in his man-made nest: it is a woolen sock nestled in a heating pad set on low and fitted into a sall box.
Max puts down his pen and reaches for a sweater. He glances over at Mico, whose bright eyes follow his every move. “Warm now?” Max said. “That’s a lot better than the straw coat you were wearing when I found you in that bar in Tegucigalpa last year. Not to mention that ridiculous little hat they made you wear.
A half/truth half/fiction bit of fluff.