I woke convinced something was clinging to my skin. In the darkness, a sharp pressure against my back sent my heart racing, and even switching on the light failed to explain what I had found. Soon, my family was awake, staring at the tiny object in my hand, until one simple question finally brought us closer to the trut…

Once I peeled the rough little fragment away, its brown, uneven surface only deepened the mystery. We inspected it together, even enlarging a photograph to search for clues. Nobody could confidently identify it. Then someone asked what we had eaten that evening. Dinner had included cooked chicken, and suddenly the texture looked familiar. The supposed intruder appeared to be nothing more than a dried scrap that had somehow reached my clothes or bedding.

Relief quickly gave way to laughter. I had roused the household over leftovers, yet the pounding heart and tense muscles had been entirely real. In those confused moments after waking, every unfamiliar sensation had seemed like evidence of danger. Understanding what I was holding changed everything without changing the object itself. By morning, the scare had become a family joke—and a reminder to turn on the light before letting imagination supply the worst possible answer.