I remember the first day I met this tiny human—his tiny hands, those puffed‑up cheeks, the loud cries. The night my wife went into labor was ridiculous. I was told to sit and wait on a hospital bench. It was almost midnight. My headphones were on, my laptop open, my phone battery dead. I was watching parenting videos, telling myself don’t freak out, while inside it was a full‑blown chaos fest. Happiness, panic, anticipation—all crashing together. Somehow I knew something new had arrived in the world for me. My journey from that hospital bench to finding my son had begun.

Now, you might think leaving a hospital bench isn’t dramatic. But in that moment, I couldn’t care less. It felt primal, like a wolf driven to find his pup. And it turned into an adventure.

Let me set the scene: it was dark, COVID had barely ended, and social distancing was still in place. I was sitting in the middle of the hospital wing where infected patients had been kept. I didn’t care about myself—the point was to protect my newborn. The hospital at midnight felt like a zombie apocalypse movie. I was in a small city in northern Thailand, not speaking a word of the language. My phone was dead, so I had to trust my instincts. Most of the buildings and floors were locked. To enter, you needed a swab test. The only place I could slip into without anyone noticing was…the morgue.

Yeah. The morgue.

I thought, maybe after my pup graduates, but it’s too early to lie down here. Still, I ended up talking to a dead man. Middle‑aged, pale skin, feet sticking out from under the sheet—clean, manicured, almost posh for these parts. I bragged to him about the brand‑new life that had just arrived. Savage, I know, but he didn’t seem to mind. And while I was there, I found a socket to charge my phone. By the time my battery hit 70%, I had finished my “conversation” with the corpse. Strange night, but he was a good listener.

Phone back on, I contacted my mother‑in‑law, read the signs, and finally reached the private room we had rented for my wife and baby. I used my last COVID test kit to gain entry, then waited outside until they brought my little pup to me. Holding that tiny life was the complete opposite of the last person I’d met. He wasn’t a listener—he screamed like the world’s cutest pterodactyl. But it was wonderful.

Then the nurse shouted at me in half‑Thai, half‑English: my son had been drinking too much formula. It was meant for everyone, but he was guzzling it like a champion. So I had to run out and find more. No measuring spoon, no clue. I ended up yelling “spoon!” at people in 7‑Eleven until someone finally handed me one. I mixed the formula, fed him, and survived another round of chaos.

The little pup, though—he’s kind of a jerk. He hates sound, hates the world, and seems like all he wants is to crawl back into his mom’s womb. But that’s another chapter for another day…