“Don’t you touch that!” Dad warned. But I licked my finger and stuck it to the electric-blue bug zapper anyway. Nothing happened. He said the same about the Teflon pan on the stove, the copperhead with a bulging belly, and the poison ivy spiraling up the chestnut tree. No burn, no bite, not even an itch. When I brought home my first girlfriend, he said it again. “Don’t.”

Later, in the dark, she whispered, touch me. And I did. And she left. I told myself it didn’t matter. That numb was normal. Now, alone, I prod the copperhead into striking. Call it research. Call it closure. But don’t call it healing. That implies I want to get better.