Exactly. Buffy was on the table with me. I clutched her arm. There was strength in numbers. “Liz? Join us?” She had bare ankles. Didn’t she realize she was in danger?

She shook her head and grinned. “I only leap on tables for mice.”

Poor, foolish Liz. “What do you think the snake was hunting?”

Now she looked nervous.

“What kind of snake?” Anarchy asked Buffy.

I huffed. “Does it matter?” It did not. Snakes were snakes. And snakes were scary. Probably evil.

“It was black,” said Buffy. “Like a nightmare.”

“Like a rat snake,” said Perry.

“Rat?” Liz squeaked “There are rats?”

“No, dear,” Perry promised. “No rats.”

“You’re sure?” She eyed my spot on the table as if she might join me. I held out my hand to help her.

“No rats,” Perry repeated. “And the snake is harmless.” He gave me a pointed stare. “It won’t hurt you.”

Ha! A likely story. I would not be talked down. “I don’t care if it’s a six-inch garter snake. I want assurances it’s gone.”

“It wasn’t six-inches.” Buffy spread her arms wide. “It was enormous.”

That settled it. I wasn’t leaving the table.

“You’re wearing boots,” Thatch observed.

“They only reach mid-calf.” My fear of snakes wasn’t reasonable. I knew that. But sometimes emotion and reason were very far apart. And when it came to reptiles that slithered and hissed and sank fangs into unsuspecting ankles, there was no room for reason.

“Ellison.” Anarchy extended his hand. “I’ll protect you.”

“Nope. Get rid of the snake, and I’ll get down.”

“It won’t hurt you,” said the Joni Mitchell look-alike. “It’s probably more scared than you are.”

First off, no one asked for her opinion. Second, her assertion was ridiculous. I was nearly frozen in terror.

When Grace was eight, my late husband and I had rented a house at Lake of the Ozarks, and on our first night there, the two of them hid a rubber snake in my bed.

I turned back the covers and screamed so loud the neighbors across the cove were certain I was being brutally murdered. They called the police, and my husband had to explain that he’d merely scared me out of my wits.

I didn’t blame Grace. She was a child playing a joke on her mother. I did blame Henry. He'd known my fear, financed the purchase of the damned snake, and laughed at my terror.

At least Anarchy wasn’t laughing at me. “I’ll carry you to the cabin.”

“It’s too far.”

“Buffy, get down,” said Bill.

“Nope.” She crossed her arms. Buffy was a smart woman.

“I mean it Buffy. Get down from there.”

“No.”

Bill stepped closer to the table. “You’re embarrassing me.” He spoke so low only Buffy and I heard him. “It’s a snake, not the boogeyman.”

“I’d rather face the boogeyman,” Buffy replied.