Kimmy’s breath came out in sharp and desperate bursts—it was just too beautiful and too exciting to bear. Even Scott was touched and transported by the scene, a quiver rising within and awakening a nameless desire so intense he almost could have mistaken it for sexual arousal.

Poppy had a disposable camera in her pocket, and she made a move for it, slow and steady, willing the fawn not to scamper off. Just as her fingers closed around the camera in her pocket, the fawn made a sudden move, and for one split second Poppy regretted her greed for a picture, certain that her movement, careful as it was, had caused the creature to panic.

But in the next moment it was clear what had startled the fawn, when the head and upper torso of an alligator surged out from the black water, as thick and strong and ugly as a demon. Lily pads spread in both directions, except for one that was attached to the gator’s thickly textured back as it gripped the fawn by its front leg and pulled it into the water, whipping its powerful head back and forth to stun the fawn.

The gator was fat and warty—a horror, a monster—and once it had the fawn in its grasp, its jaws opened only once, in a swift and measured move to grip higher on the fawn’s leg. The poor animal screamed, high-pitched and pure as glass, as the gator dragged it fully into the water.

The small lagoon was not deep, and even after it had been dragged several feet from the edge, the fawn could clearly be seen thrashing, releasing tortured shrieks. Blooms of bright red blood reached the surface of the water. The fawn continued to kick, and when a breath shot out from its wild nostrils, so did a spray of blood.

Everyone stood in silent, stunned horror except for Kimmy, who let out a blood-curdling cry directed at no one in particular: “Do something!”

Before anyone could stop him, before he rightly knew himself what he was going to do, Scott was running down the wooden bridge to the far side of the lagoon where the fawn was still fighting, three or four feet from the water’s edge. Scott wrestled a thick dead root from the ground near his feet, jumped on the thing to break it into a manageable, baseball-bat-sized weapon. He took a step into the water, soaking his sandaled feet, and Lisa screamed, “Scott, no! Stay back!” But her voice did not reach him—at least not the part of him that wished to acknowledge or obey her—and he waited only a few seconds before he got a clear view of the gator’s head, then he went for it with a two-armed, over-the-head, ax-to-chopping-block swing. The stick met the reptile’s thick skull with a satisfying thud, like he had just struck a bed of clay.

The gator reared back in stunned surprise, unclamped its jaws, and moaned deeply. The fawn, released from the gator’s grip but too weak to stand or flee, remained where it was.