Because the warden is my cousin, my mountain friends hunt in summer, when the deer cherish each rattler-ridden spring, and I have waited hours by a pool in fear that manhood would require I shoot, or that the steady drip of the hill would dull my ear to a snake whispering near the log I sat upon, and listened to the yelping cheer of dogs and men resounding ridge to ridge. I flinched at every lonely rifle crack, my knuckles whitening where I gripped the edge of age and clung, like retching, sinking back then gripping once again the monstrous gun, since I, to be a man, had taken one.