Chapter 3: Snake Harvest

Strangely, after the wedding was set, groups of snakes—three or five at a time—started curling up in our old barn.

The barn smelled like old hay and motor oil, the air heavy with the promise of rain. It was falling apart, siding peeling and doors hanging crooked, but it was the only place on the property big enough to hide things. I watched from the upstairs window as the snakes appeared—bundled together, their scales glinting in the afternoon sun, like they’d always belonged there.

When my mom went to catch them, they didn’t even budge.

She didn’t even flinch as she scooped them into an old laundry basket, humming "Amazing Grace" under her breath, voice shaky but determined. The snakes just lay there, docile, tongues flicking lazily, like they were waiting for her.

Grinning so wide her mouth looked like it might split, my mom said, “These snakes must be gifts from my son-in-law. Good for keeping us strong.”

Her eyes gleamed with a wild sort of pride. “Lord knows we needed a blessing, and here it is,” she’d say, waving the basket around like she’d just won the lottery. Her voice was bright, almost giddy—a far cry from the woman who’d been sobbing on the kitchen floor days before.

She made pot after pot of snake stew, the smell so rich it made your stomach growl.

The whole house filled with that savory, peppery aroma—thick enough to mask the musty smell of mildew and wet boots. Neighbors started drifting by, noses twitching, drawn in by the promise of real meat. The stew bubbled away on the stove all day, the scent hanging in the curtains and coats for weeks.

I drooled with hunger.

Every time my stomach growled, the longing got sharper. I pressed my nose against the pot lid, steam fogging up my glasses. I hadn’t had a full meal in months, and the temptation was almost unbearable.

Every time, my sister would grab my hand tight and shake her head: “You can’t eat those snakes. Not a single bite.”

She’d catch me in the doorway, eyes hard, squeezing my fingers until I winced. "Promise me," she whispered, lips barely moving. "Not even a taste."

I stared at her, confused. “Why?”

I was hungry and young, and nothing made sense. My stomach overruled my head, but I trusted her.

She said, “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, but you gotta know which dogs to stay away from. Promise me you’ll steer clear.”

She said it with a half-laugh, but her eyes were sad. It was the kind of thing she’d picked up from TV or some old paperback mystery, repeating it like a riddle she couldn’t solve.

I scratched my head, still not getting it.

She sighed and patted my head. “Just remember, you must never eat those snakes. Not even a taste, okay?”

Her touch was gentle—a rare softness in our hard world. She knelt down so we were eye to eye. “Promise me. Please.”

I nodded, serious as could be.

I stuck out my pinky, and she linked hers with mine, sealing it the way only siblings do. I meant it—I’d never break a promise to her.

I remembered when we were little, how she used to sneak me the last Pop-Tart, even when she was hungry too. In this world, my sister was the only one who ever looked out for me. I’d do whatever she said.