We were in the tuk-tuk when my four-year-old son screamed blue murder. We pulled over and discovered he had been bitten by something, and my mind immediately leapt to the worst-case scenario. It had to be a dengue-carrying mosquito! We were in a remote part of Cebu Island in the Philippines, far from any major hospitals. It was a Sunday. Why hadn’t I put on more repellant? How had he been bitten through his rashie? Why had I brought my young family here?

My partner, meanwhile, was calm. Back at our homestay, he found a cold drink to use as an ice pack and sat with our son until he settled. When we checked the bite minutes later, there was no redness, no swelling, barely even a mark. Our son, now happily watching TV, could hardly point to which arm it had been on.

Nonetheless, I had the antihistamines ready. I Googled symptoms, warning signs and nearby medical centres. I started mentally mapping an exit plan: maybe we could leave tomorrow, a day earlier than planned, for somewhere more central with better facilities.

For what was supposed to be a relaxing island holiday, worry had unfortunately become a pesky, uninvited visitor. Over the past week, I had worried about stray dogs, ice cubes, street food, traffic and........

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