Right, we all were. And that was the brilliance, I thought, as of course the narrator was expecting the worst, and his relief was our relief.
(Definitely went and gave the little 'un a hug after reading the last lines.)
I have never been a parent, but I can quite easily imagine being in a state of almost constant anxiety about my child. It must be nerve-racking, especially when the child is too little to protect or defend himself or herself. The story does capture that angst in its final moments.
Hazlitt, have you ever considered trying to write a piece of short fiction yourself? You seem to have a really deep appreciation for the form, so I'd counsel you to write a story yourself. Try writing something at the NEW YORKER length--no more than 2500 words, say. You don't have to show it to anyone or send it out to a publication. But I guarantee you the feeling of satisfaction you will get when you finish it will be tremendous. Give it a try, Hazlitt.
Sozobe, I can't go into the details, but Hazlitt assures me that he DOES write. Good for him!
