It was impossible to keep Albert anywhere. It didn’t matter whether we locked the door, built walls, or invested in plastic toy tube mazes. He always escaped. He was tricky. Complacent. Happy. We would walk away, fooled into believing that we had finally figured out how to keep him contained. Two hours later, we would have no idea where he was, and when we did find him, we’d have no idea how he even got into the bookcase. We decided he had magical powers. We decided he was a shapeshifter, a time traveler, or a robot. Perhaps he could travel through solid objects. After all he found ways around furniture, fences, trees, and the ludicrously tall plastic castle. A tortoise was not supposed to be a master escape artist.