Strange animals lurk in the trees. I’m having an americano in the garage, looking down the driveway, into the street. There are at least two dozen or so species of trees—perhaps sabal palmettos, maybe a longleaf or loblolly pine, another bearing an evil, yet edible, looking pink fruit, something of a dragonfruit, a cousin maybe. Trucks, cars, and motorcycles continuously race by to unknown destinations, and yet, there doesn’t seem to be anything in either direction.

The beginning of the driveway, or perhaps the end of it, is filled with my niece’s toys. There is a scooter, pink, a tricycle, also pink, a three-legged plastic tub that holds water that is referred to as the “beach,” and another white bicycle with training wheels. My nephew’s scooter rests on the side of the house collecting rust from the afternoon monsoons. A squirrel, or maybe it’s a cuban tree frog, green snake, woodrat, or even a black bear, agitates the above branches.

I had seen a black bear in Asheville in the front yard of someone’s house a few weeks ago now. Our eyes met and I stood, searching for the correct response to a bear encounter. He remained under the tree, casually eating his grass, and wearing a collar. For a moment, I thought someone had their domesticated black bear out for some morning air but realized that he wore a satellite collar—tracked wherever he goes.

I escaped unscathed. All of my anxiety, useful historically to avoid carnivorous animals, was momentarily put to good use, although, really all he wanted, it seemed, was to be left to his breakfast of grass, leaves, and insects. I approached my destination, yet another coffee shop, and felt temporary gratitude for my usual encounters only with pigeons, cockroaches, or even squirrels in the trees.

Two nights ago, we took my niece for a walk in a nearby park. At its entrance, there was a small pond that I eyed suspiciously and nervously for alligators. The path led us through the woods on a wide, wooden walkway with handrails. My niece asked where the animals were and said she wished she were taller so she could see “just see the animals.” We had only seen rabbits, many of them too, and some occasional mice. I was glad for it.

When she grew tired of walking, my brother carried her on his shoulders. Now she could see over the handrails but there was nothing to see but trees. The walkway eventually ended and connected once again with the concrete sidewalk on the south side of the soccer fields and along a row of beige houses. The rabbits were out still, crouching, eating, listening, and then hopping away. The sun was beginning to set. The gnats were swarming our ears.

My niece walked now with us and held both of our hands. We swung her back and forth: “1, 2, 3...go!” She laughed and set up for the next one, a few times now, back and forth, back and forth. We missed the timing eventually, her tiny hands locked inside of our sweaty, adult fists. On the left side, my side, her knee dragged along the pavement. A little agony and blood now. The gnats were still at it, the humidity bothering my neck, the t-shirt stuck everywhere. She cried and we consoled: “It’s just a little scrape. Blood is normal. We’ll put a band-aid on it.”

In the car, she was further pacified with a phone, a show from Russia, toys, bright colors, otherworldly sound bites, neither from Russia nor any other country that I could identify. We arrived home, now dark, cooked bison, and parked ourselves in front of the TV for the Stanley Cup finals. I grew tired eventually and slept before my niece who was still hypnotized by Youtube, Peppa Pig now, where she could still watch the animals, anthropomorphic they may be, with a band-aid on her knee.