At two in the morning, I’d wrestled with the mosquito net for the last time and decided to sit up in the rocking chair with my son. He was having trouble breathing. Neither of us was sleeping very well.

I’m always quite amazed at how quiet it is at the beach. Considering the odd bunch of characters that clamor to the ocean: surfers, beer drinkers, backpackers, families, teenagers, drug addicts, reggae bands, margarita lovers, babies, and Evangelicals – to mention a few - the nights are usually serene. Even the dogs don’t bark much. The sun and surf tires everyone out.

I rocked in the chair waiting for Addison to be “out cold” before I toyed with replacing him in the bed. The night air was crisp and cool, a delight to feel after a warm day.

I have this funny habit of looking for signs all day. Not placards like the ones of the sign of the road, but odd, quirky little things that might be signs from somewhere: perhaps another planet, perhaps my late dog or father, perhaps Fred Flinstone. These little signs lighten my day and give me the feeling I’m not so alone in the long events of the day.

Across the floor, a light blinked. It walked across the floor. A lonely little firefly had been locked inside for the night. His little light would not attract a mate tonight. He walked across the floor and stopped in front of my chair. Then, he turned right.

His light blinked on as I took Addison back to bed.