“Does that shit hurt?” Rudy asked, touching his own cheek in sympathy.

“Of course it does,” Perley said. “Can I have your Sharpie?” He pointed to the marker stuck behind Rudy’s ear.

“I use that to label my fruit trees,” Rudy said, but handed it right over.

“We’ve tried everything except a cat,” I said.

“You know I’m always at your service,” Rudy said. He turned his bucket over, deposited his snakebite cures into it, and crashed off through the woods toward the pipeline.

We came to an agreement. Perley allowed us to administer first aid, to wash his wound, to take his temperature. He rested when we told him to rest. He ate the nourishing food we cooked. In return, we let him sleep alone in the camper. Perley used Rudy’s Sharpie to make a sign that said NO MAMAS ALLOWED. To that he added NO MEAN AUNT, NO RUDY. PASSWORD REQUIRED. I didn’t know the password. I couldn’t guess it. I didn’t try.

At first the snakebite rode full sail on his face, and we couldn’t look at or think about anything else. His punctured places were black and red, raised in scabs, his cheek bruised dark purple. We fed him vitamin C, spooned cod-liver oil down his throat. We changed the dressing four times a day. Four times a day, I kneaded my breasts and expressed into a cup. Then I washed Perley’s wound, using a dropper to send my milk down into the sutures.

The danger of infection passed. Perley’s purple faded to reddish brown. I hadn’t been to work in two weeks and we needed money. It was a busy time for Helen, too. The acorn harvest was over, but she had to finish her community service hours before the end of the calendar year, and she was working long days for Rudy, trying to make back court fees. So Perley was left with Karen.