The Unborn’s Apocalyptic Warning Chapter 08
My son Seamus turned three.
Though his “zombie apocalypse” prediction had been a bust, the kid radiated a world-weariness far beyond his years from the day he was born.
While other trust-fund toddlers were playing with Lego, he was engineering traps out of toothpicks and rubber bands.
One day, the preschool organized a parent-child camping trip.
A flock of women in Hermès hiking gear were posing for photos on the lawn.
They’d brought red wine, steaks, and exquisite French pastries.
I unzipped Seamus’s little backpack, and my face darkened instantly.
No snacks. Just a coil of nylon rope, a compass, and a pair of scissors I used to trim my eyebrows.
“Seamus, we’re here to have fun. This isn’t a survival expedition.”
Seamus looked up at me, eyes ancient beyond his years.
“Mommy, you always have to be prepared for danger.”
Fine. Clearly his past life had left a lasting impression.
A woman from the neighboring tent wandered over.
“Oh, Catalina! What’s your little Seamus doing digging holes? He’s getting absolutely filthy.”
I turned to look.
Seamus was hunched over with his plastic toy shovel, huffing and puffing as he dug a drainage trench around our tent.
Salvatore was crouched beside him—not only not stopping him, but handing him a bottle of water.
“Son, isn’t this trench a little shallow? Want Daddy to call in an excavator?”
I buried my face in my hands. The embarrassment was going to kill me.
These two were beyond saving.
That night, the mountain weather turned on a dime.
A downpour came crashing down without warning.
Mrs. Lee and her group had pitched their tents in a low-lying area without bothering to dig any drainage. Within seconds, they were living in a waterfall.
Our tent—thanks to that seemingly pointless trench Seamus had dug—stayed bone dry.
I sat on the moisture-proof mat, sipping the hot coffee Salvatore had brewed.
Outside was a parade of drenched, mascara-streaked people scrambling for cover.
Seamus sat cross-legged at the tent entrance, watching the curtain of rain with perfect composure, calmly unwrapping a lollipop.
He shook his little head, and in that sweet toddler voice, delivered a verdict:
“This group is really hard to lead.”
I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing.
Salvatore scooped him up and planted a big kiss on his cheek.
“That’s my good boy. Salvatore and Catalina’s son. Born with foresight.”