Ethan and I have been raised to avoid rattlesnakes at all costs. Arn taught us they can strike from two-thirds their body length. He said climbing trees can sometimes save you, but diving into water will not. When we were younger, our mutt Bitsy took a diamondback bite on her cheek. The dog languished for a day, writhing and yelping until Arn put a merciful bullet in her brain. Since then, I’ve had a healthy fear of rattlers. Now one is curled snugly around itself about six feet from me. And it looks big.

The best plan would be to quietly pick up and move away. I’m about to tell Hatch when the image of our writhing dog flashes through my head. Hmm. I revise my plan.

Hatch returns with another armload of scrap wood and drops it next to the fire. He produces a can opener and cracks open a can of what looks like minced chicken. I watch the armchair with rapt interest and hope that Hatch’s huge presence will be enough to send the snake out, fangs bared.

Hatch turns to me, a big dumb smile creeping up his face. “When supper’s done, you and me go in the house.”

I shake my head. “Ethan and I stay together.”

Hatch points a chicken-coated finger at me. “You and me.” He thumbs to the house. He runs his hands over his bare belly beneath his stained overalls. A sick, anxious feeling climbs over me. I absolutely cannot go in the house with Hatch. The next few minutes seem to stretch into infinity as I try to piece out an escape.

Hatch spoons hot heaping portions of the minced chicken into his mouth with the same dirty fingers he uses to scratch his crotch. I keep my eyes on the rattler who hasn’t moved an inch. Then I see the long curved stick Hatch used to stoke the fire. If I could get my hands on it—

Hatch burps and pats his round belly. The dirty overalls swell around his flabby midsection. He holds the last can up and motions to us. He scoops some food out with his fingers and lumbers toward me, his hand outstretched. He wants me to eat out of his hand. Despite the urge to smack the globs of chicken away, I smile and stand up. “I’ll come sit by you and you can feed me.” I hate the sugary tone in my voice, the smile I plaster on. Then I nod to my feet. “That is, if you undo my feet.”

He eyes me, but finally flicks out a little pocketknife and slices through the bonds at my feet. “If you run,” he says, hulking over me, “I kill him.” He points to Ethan. His face hangs emotionless. He means it. I no longer feel bad about trying to hurt Hatch.