The first thing I thought when the rattlesnake bit me was that it had chosen the wrong man. The second was worse: there wasn’t another grown soul in the house to hear my children cry.

Its fangs struck my right wrist beneath the porch steps. I jerked back so hard my shoulder hit the railing, and the small wooden horse I’d reached for fell into the dust. Under the boards, the snake’s rattle continued, a dry sound like somebody shaking beans in a tin. It was angry. I was terrified. But when the first fierce pain climbed my arm, I understood the animal had already done everything it needed to do.