I moved through the next few days like someone living under a microscope, except the lens was turned on my own skin. Every twinge, every warmth in my joints, every hint of fatigue became a possible sign that this tiny intruder had left something behind. I kept replaying that first moment, wondering how close I’d come to walking away without ever noticing it was there.

But with the fear came a quiet resolve. I read, I learned, I changed my habits. Long socks, repellent, regular checks, a yard that no longer offered easy hiding places. I started talking about it, too—because silence felt more dangerous than any bug. That single bite didn’t just unsettle an afternoon; it redrew the borders of what “safe at home” means. And somehow, in respecting the risk, I began to feel safer than before.