My brother’s in the field with the snakes. I kicked up dirt chasing after him, but now I hesitate at the edge. He’s jubilant. The sun crests over him. I watch the brown-gray body as it shifts tall grass. The raised head. Dad’s on the porch with a gun in his pocket and whiskey riding his breath. He tells me to go on already—the field is safe.

I step in. Walk, then run, though the grass won’t bend way for me like it does my brother. I pretend at being carefree, but the sun bothers my eyes. I worry about what I can’t see.

When the snake sinks its teeth into my brother’s foot, he doesn’t make a sound of protest. He yanks it out barehanded. Later, I’ll admire him for acting through the pain. I’ll consider him brave. I won’t question the instinct to repress.

Dad bulls through the field. His pistol’s in his hand. The gunshot is both too loud and too quiet. My ears ring. My brother flinches. The snake’s body ceases. Its blood spills into the field. At night, I’ll dream of snakes bathing in sun.