After searching the sheets and shaking out the blanket, I finally removed a small, hard, brownish object from my back.
Continue Reading »Its uneven edges looked unsettling, and nobody examining it could immediately explain what it was.
Even an enlarged photograph only deepened the confusion. Then someone asked what we had eaten that evening.
There had been cooked chicken, and the object suddenly looked familiar: it appeared to be a dried scrap that had somehow reached my clothing or bedding.
Relief quickly gave way to laughter. I had woken the household over what seemed to be a forgotten piece of dinner, not an insect or anything dangerous.
Still, the racing heart and tense muscles had been real. Darkness and uncertainty had turned an ordinary sensation into a frightening mystery.
By morning, we had a family story worth retelling—and I had a reminder to reach for the light before trusting my imagination.
