The canopy of the ancient rainforest was a chaotic orchestra of instinct.

For seven years, Barnaby had been a three-toed sloth, existing entirely in the rhythm of the urge. Hungry? Eat a cecropia leaf. Tired? Sleep, hooked by his claws to a high branch. Threat? Hold impossibly still and blend into the moss. He did not think; he was simply acted upon by the chemical wiring of his brain.

Then came the thunderstorm.