Finch stood up. His voice was calm, condescending. “Dr. Vance, you see a mess. I see a bespoke adaptation. Just because you don’t understand the design doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

Elara smiled a tired, academic smile. She had spent ten years in the bamboo-choked mists of Sichuan. She had watched pandas sit like fat, dissolute monks, stripping bamboo stalks with a motion that was not elegant, but fumbling. And she had dissected their paws.

She looked directly at Finch. “The panda’s thumb is not a symbol of perfection. It is a footprint. A record of a past. It tells us that the panda started as a meat-eating bear, and when it switched to bamboo, evolution did not scrap the chassis. It just glued a spare part onto the wheel. It is quirky, imperfect, and utterly wonderful because of its flaws.”

“Look at this elegant, opposable thumb,” Finch wrote, “perfectly designed to strip bamboo. A clear sign of a benevolent, precise Creator.”