Past the blaring light of the hallway, I could only see her silhouette.

There's a monster in the closet, she said.

My wife was more awake than me, she started to get out of bed.

No, my daughter said, you don't go, mommy, that is braver.

Peter, you hear that?

Apparently, you're braver.

My wife mumbled as she slid back into the covers.

I am, I said.

The girl took after a mother with the overactive imagination.

This wasn't the first time our daughter had woken us up in the middle of the night with

abstract fears, and I feared it wouldn't be the last.

As I dug my slippers out from beneath the bed, I convinced myself that with a bit of rational

thinking I could put an end to these two AM wake-ups.

It's the squiggle again, she whispered, dangling her legs from the bed.

This squiggle was just another, in a long list of creatures that would hide in my daughter's closet.

There were goblins, there were bears, and after a fumbled explanation of world politics,

her son would be in love and share the closet space for about a month.

That night, it was the squiggle.

She kept on looking at the closet door, expecting me to open it like I always did.

But I didn't.

Instead, I sat down next to her on the bed.

Can you describe the squiggle to me, Annie?

...