Baby monkey Jobi had seen many things in his young life—dangling vines, chattering parrots, even the occasional wandering tortoise—but nothing prepared him for the enormous, glowing orb that appeared in the clearing one sunny afternoon. It sat there perfectly still, bright and round like a miniature sun that had accidentally rolled into his world. Jobi’s first instinct was suspicion. His tiny face scrunched into a puzzled frown, and he froze mid-step, clutching a tuft of grass as if it might anchor him in case the strange thing suddenly decided to chase him.
He leaned forward just enough for his nose to twitch. Sniff. Sniff. The scent was familiar—sweet, citrusy, something he’d smelled drifting from the humans’ baskets before—but never this strong. That only made it more suspicious. Jobi tilted his head to one side, then the other, trying to understand why a fruit would be so unnaturally huge. In his mind, only two possibilities existed: either this giant orange was magical, or it was planning something.
Step by cautious step, he approached. His tail puffed out in a dramatic arc, ready to spring him backward if the giant orange so much as wobbled. He circled it twice, pausing each time to give it a doubtful glare. When it continued to behave like an ordinary piece of fruit—remarkably still and uninterested in eating him—Jobi tapped it with one tiny finger. The thump startled him so much he leapt straight into the air, let out a chirping squeak, and clung to the nearest branch like a furry ornament.
From the safety of his perch, he watched the orange suspiciously. Still no movement. No roaring. No rolling. Just harmless, silent roundness.
Embarrassment eventually nudged him back down. With a determined huff, Jobi approached again. This time, he placed both hands on the giant fruit and gave it a firm push. It rocked gently. Jobi’s eyes widened—not in fear, but in fascination. Suddenly, the giant orange was no longer a possible threat. It was a toy.
