My stick grazes off something, but is it chair or snake? I try to swirl it around, but Hatch snatches the stick from my hands so fast a splinter bites into my palm. “What you doing?” he asks, his brow wrinkling.

He raises the stick to strike me. Then we hear it.

Sssshhh-thck-thck-thck.

Hatch stumbles back, searching. I see her, the brown blur slithering across the dry grass. Hatch takes a step back and his foot lands on the rattler’s tail. The rattlesnake turns and springs. Her jaw unhinges. I see the flash of white fangs. Her brown, arrowed head latches onto Hatch’s exposed ankle.

“Yeeeaawww!” Hatch kicks his foot, trying to detach the snake. Her body thrashes like a long brown streamer on a windy day. She won’t let go. Hatch tumbles over the chair and lands hard on his back, his legs dangling in the air. He’s still screaming.

I watch with my hands over my mouth.

The snake slithers away, shaking a warning song as she slices an S through the dry grass. My eyes flick to Hatch. He’s moaning and yelping. Was it enough to stop him?

He rolls back and forth on his back in the dust, clutching his ankle in both hands. He tugs his foot toward his mouth in an attempt to suck the poison out, his lips curling in an anguished sneer. When he can’t get his foot to his mouth, he rolls over and pulls himself up on the tumbled armchair. A string of frothy saliva runs down the corner of his mouth. His body’s covered in a scrim of dust. His blood-shot eyes fall on me.

“You.” He points a shaking finger. He limps toward me, his face twisted in rage.

If he catches me, he will kill me.

I turn and sprint toward the house. His heavy footsteps thud after me. With my heart flying into my throat, I tear through the yard as fast as my legs will go. I catch my foot on a prickly shrub and take a hard fall. My elbow slams into the dust and pain spikes my mouth as I bite my tongue. I look over my shoulder. Hatch is right behind me. White froth decorates the corners of his mouth as he reaches out with a clawed hand. I scramble up and sprint across the yard. I gotta make it to the house.

I tumble through the sliding glass door, my shoulder rocking into the frame. I thud down the hall. Where to go? Kitchen! I stumble in and yank out drawers. My bound hands scramble over rusty tongs, place mats, crumpled paper napkins. Where’s a goddamn knife?