I am thirty-four years old, and until a few weeks ago, I believed I had a firm grasp on the concept of fear. I do not mean the grand, cinematic kind of fear that arrives with wailing sirens or shocking medical emergencies in the middle of the night. I mean the ordinary, quiet fear that accompanies raising a child on your own, constantly hoping your instincts are enough and that you are not overlooking something vital. My son, Sam, is eight years old, and he has always possessed an incredibly vivid imagination. He transforms everyday shadows into dragons, floorboard creaks...
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