Snappy has patrolled this stretch of water for years. The humans are building again — docks, boats, noise. He watches from the reeds. One of them, a child, slips from the pier and doesn't come up.

Snappy moves. He has never touched a human before. When he surfaces with the child on his back, the crowd goes silent. Then the child coughs and cries. Snappy slides back into the water. He doesn't wait for thanks. But the next morning, someone leaves a fish on the dock. He takes it. Maybe not all humans are bad. Or maybe they're just scared. He'll keep watching either way.

The annual river race is about to start. Snappy isn't supposed to be in the channel, but the current is perfect today. He lounges on a log as the first kayaks approach. The lead paddler sees him and freezes. Snappy blinks. He could slide away. He could stay. He opens his jaw in a slow yawn, then rolls off the log and glides downstream. The paddlers restart, heart still pounding. Snappy surfaces downstream, just past the finish line. He didn't race. He just wanted to see who'd win. The winner crosses. Snappy sinks beneath the surface. Next year, he thinks, maybe he'll enter. They'll never see it coming.

Nobody ever does.

A wildlife photographer has been waiting three days for the perfect shot. Snappy has been aware the whole time. On the fourth morning, Snappy lumbers into frame — full profile, scales catching the light. The photographer's hands shake. Click. Snappy holds the pose. Click. Then Snappy turns and looks straight at the lens. The photographer doesn't move. Snappy blinks once, slowly, then slips into the water. The last shot is a single yellow eye, half-submerged, fixed on the camera. It wins a prize. The photographer never tells anyone that Snappy held the pose on purpose. Some secrets are better kept between species.

Snappy has already forgotten. He has other ponds to patrol.

Snappy didn't mean to get out. The gate was left open; the night was warm. He finds himself in a world of concrete and grass. He could hide. He could cause chaos. Instead he follows the sound of water to a fountain in the plaza. Children point. Parents pull them back. Snappy ignores them. He slides into the fountain and floats. Security arrives. So does the media. Snappy stays in the fountain until dawn. When the keepers come with the transport, he walks in on his own. Back in his enclosure, he watches the news. His face is everywhere. He didn't bite anyone. He didn't run. He just wanted to see the fountain. Sometimes the best escape is simply being somewhere else for a night.

Next time, he thinks, he'll try the beach.

Another crocodile has moved into the territory. Bigger. Older. Snappy could fight. He could leave. He chooses to meet the stranger at the boundary. They size each other up. The stranger speaks first: I'm not here for your pond. I'm passing through. Snappy waits. The stranger says: I heard there's a human who feeds the crocs downstream. I'm looking for an easy meal. Snappy says: That's me. I don't feed. I watch. The stranger laughs. Then we're alike. They float in silence. By evening the stranger has moved on. Snappy never learns his name. Some things don't need names. Just respect. He keeps the pond. The stranger keeps the river. The border holds. For now.

Snappy sleeps well that night. The water is quiet.