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One night when my firstborn, Max, was 4 years old, our family was camping on the South Pacific island where we lived when I woke suddenly. It was long before dawn, dark and unusually cold. I could hear the rhythmic bass of the restless surf — and something else. Something moving outside the entrance to our tent. Something much larger than a coconut crab.
I thought it was a stray dog trying to get into our food, so I was somewhat alarmed when I heard the tent zipper go up and a medium-sized shape pushed its way inside…
Read the rest of this essay in Notre Dame Magazine.
