By Jenna L. Miller

We had been standing in front of the Komodo dragons for fifteen minutes by that point, and she was already getting tired. She pressed her small face as close to the barrier as possible as the giant reptile lounged, barely moving. “They can live up to thirty years in the wild,” I said. The exhibit was on the opposite side of the aquarium, but she had smiled beautifully, skipping and dragging me forward, repeating, “Dragons!” She clutched a small plastic Komodo dragon we had bought in the gift shop the last time we visited. “The sharks are that way,” I pointed. “They also have river otters.” But she had gripped my hand tighter and said only, “No! Dragons!” 

This part of the exhibit was not air-conditioned. She was still sweating from the ninety-degree day, but she pushed her water bottle away each time I handed it to her. The noises always started small–a light cough, or random sound she made in the back of her throat. I slid my phone out of my back pocket. “Here’s the timer,” I said, the app now open on my phone. I set it for five minutes and waited, watching her. “When this timer goes off, we need to leave.” She didn’t move, but I felt the shift within her a second before she screamed, “No!” and her noise-canceling headphones hit the translucent barrier. She placed her hands over her ears. I took one step forward, and she screamed louder.  

“What is wrong with that kid?”

“Deep breath,” I said, keeping my voice low. There were tears streaming from her eyes, and I knew that panic was flooding her small body. “Female Komodo dragons can lay up to thirty eggs,” I said. 

“Stacy, come away from her.” 

A girl about my daughter’s age was staring at us, and though she wasn’t actually standing all that close, I felt the other mother’s alarm sharpen around us as she strode forward, gripping Stacy by the elbow and pulling her away. The little girl’s feet moved forward, but she continued to watch us. Fleetingly I wondered how that mother would explain this. Would they discuss it? Would she brush it aside? That’s just bad parenting. She was throwing a tantrum. You know better than to act like that.

My daughter’s body pivoted slightly, and I instinctively knew she would throw herself backwards, slam her body and her head against the thin carpet covering the concrete floor we were standing on. I reached for her as she started to fall. I cradled her small body and supported her head and neck as she continued screaming, her face bright red, all her limbs in motion. “Komodo dragons can eat up to 80% of their body weight in one feeding,” I said. She gritted her teeth and leaned forward. “No,” I said, my voice low. Her head turned in my direction then, just for a second, but the emotion had her. 

“Oh, poor thing. My neighbor’s grandson is a little bit—you know.”

I picked my daughter up and looked for somewhere safe. Somewhere she wouldn’t bash her head on the concrete or bruise her legs kicking a bench. There was nowhere; there was just my daughter and this wave of feeling and my own adrenaline as I held her to me. “Komodo dragons can use their tongues to scent prey up to a mile away.” I clung to her as the crowd parted. Most people looked away. A few stared. The exhibit signs helped me navigate our escape. A right turn at the sea turtle tank. A left turn at the poison dart frogs. The path forward became brighter as we passed the Egyptian cobra. I shifted my daughter slightly in my arms as the giftshop sign appeared, and I walked faster. One woman, whose smile was tight but not unkind, held the door open for me as I squeezed sideways through the doorframe, careful to cradle my daughter’s head so she couldn’t throw it back against the metal as we crossed the threshold. 

She was still thrashing in my arms, screaming, but now that we were in the parking lot, I felt the tension in her body lessen. I unlocked the car and placed her in the booster seat, buckling the seat belt, catching her legs and then her hands as she flung them toward me. As soon as I stopped the intended impact, I released her. Tears were still flowing, her nose running as she screamed, “What are you doing?!” and I carefully closed the car door, ensuring that I heard it click. I slid into the driver’s seat, started the car, and turned up the air-conditioning as far as it would go. She stretched her leg out, still trying to kick me, and I opened my mouth to tell her that we’re going home. Instead, as the car’s vibration soothed us, I told her, “Komodo dragons have an iron coating on their teeth.” I took a water bottle from the passenger seat and handed it back without turning my head. I felt the weight leave my hand. I closed my eyes and silently started to count, willing her to breathe, willing her to feel what I didn’t say. Eventually, the screams subsided into whines, and the kicks aimed at the seat in front of her finally stopped. For a few minutes, we listened to the sound of the air-conditioning. I looked back at her and reached my hand out, which she took, her small fingers squeezing mine briefly before she dropped them. I heard her take a deep breath, and I put the car in reverse.